


I'm Not Broken (I Can't Be)

by Kamaevis (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Kamaevis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guys don't get raped.</p><p>Okay, so maybe they do, sometimes. But that's only when they're ganged up in an alley way and shoved against a wall and get some other guy's dick in their ass without permission. It's forceful and bloody and <em>masculine</em>. At least, that's how the media sells it.</p><p>But this isn't rape.</p><p>When a girl buys you drinks and takes you home and crawls on top of you--well, that's every guy's wet dream. </p><p>When she's grinding down onto you and her hands are holding yours to her breasts and she's whispering filthy, <em>filthy</em> things into your ear, that's not rape.</p><p>That's not rape no matter how many times you say no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The bar is quiet.  
  
Well, compared to something like a library, it would be loud, but coming from a triple shift at a hospital that was taking in patients from a seven car pileup on the highway, it was like a den of tranquility. It's warm, the hum of quiet voices spiraling around you like a gentle undercurrent and serving as a pleasant contrast to the harsh, mechanical noises of the hospital machinery, the shrill shrieks of nurses, and the pained noises of the patients.  
  
You slip inside discreetly. You don't want to draw attention to yourself. Tonight, you want to be alone with your thoughts; anything else would feel too much like infidelity.  
  
You don't like socializing when you and Dave have had a fight. You both like your solitude to let yourselves simmer down, and while he prefers to lock himself away in his room with his turntables, you like to go out, surround yourself with people and noise. You don't fight often, and it's almost always your fault, so it just feels right that you should be the one to leave, to give him space.  
  
The bartender smiles tiredly at you as you slip into the stool farthest from the door. You return the gesture and she must notice that you're just as tired because she finishes up the drink she'd been making and slides over to stand in front of you.  
  
“Long day?” She asks.  
  
“Like you wouldn't believe,” You murmur, dragging a hand through your hair, “Might I trouble you for a beer?”  
  
Laughter bubbles from her throat, “Yes, sir. You from the south?”  
  
She turns around and grabs a glass, and then stands in front of the tap, gesturing toward it with a raised eyebrow. You flap your hand because you don't really care and she shrugs and fills the glass. When she returns, placing the drink in front of you, you thank her then answer her question.  
  
“Nah,” you say as you curl your hand around the chilled glass, “My boyfriend is; some of his mannerisms have worn off over the years.”  
  
“Oh,” her eyebrows waggle suggestively, “Years, huh? Color me impressed.”  
  
“Couldn't shake him if I tried.”  
  
She laughs and wanders off to attend to another customer, leaving you to your thoughts. You sip at your beer as you turn and survey the room around you. It's a Tuesday night, so the bar's not as busy as it could be, but it's not empty. A group of college kids are crowded into a booth talking loudly and there are a couple of girls sitting together, talking to each other with their foreheads practically pressed together. The bar's mostly vacant, save a man sitting a few chairs down, shooting you strange glances out of the corner of his eye.  
  
You elect to ignore him. Your day's been rough enough without worrying about strangers with a chip on their shoulder. You close your eyes and soak in the sounds, and it's nice but you wish Dave was here with you. He would be shoving the peanut bowl dramatically away, insisting that he'd saved your life, slumping against you and explaining to you that him ordering a frilly, weak-as-fuck drink was ironic and definitely not because he enjoyed it and would drink it slowly so he could make it last as long as possible.  
  
Taking another swallow from your beer, you prop an elbow on the bar and relax against it. You'll have to apologize when you get home, of course. It's not really your fault; you can't help when the hospital calls you in, but you know that Dave had been looking forward to your date and the chiming of your pager had made his face fall for a split second before he covered his slip with biting words and spitting rage.  
  
Guilt twists at your stomach. You finish off your beer and figure you should pay and go. You'll have to walk off the alcohol, but you need to get home. You need to apologize, to do something stupid and make Dave smile and call you a loser.  
  
But before you can call the bartender over, a manicured hand is sliding a shot in front of you. You turn with raised eyebrows and a question on your lips and find a girl grinning back at you. She's got curly black hair pinned up on her head and pulled away from a pretty face. She swings onto the stool beside you, folding her arms on the bar and swirling her finger around her own shot glass.  
  
“Leaving so soon?” She asks as she gestures to your wallet, which you'd just fished out of your pocket, “You've only been here a few minutes.”  
  
“I have an upset boyfriend I need to make amends with,” You say politely, “If you'll excuse me-”  
  
She puts her hand on yours, “C'mon, sweetie, have a drink on me. I don't think five minutes is going to change whether or not you get out of the dog house.”  
  
You chuckle. You really shouldn't stay and you know it, but you figure Dave's probably still hunched over his turntables with his headphones on and you'll probably end up lazing around on the couch for an hour or two before he emerges to talk to you, anyway.  
  
“Alright. One drink.”  
  
She grins wide enough to flash her teeth and lifts her glass. You lift yours, too, and tap yours against hers before swallowing down the amber liquid. You squeeze your eyes shut and wait for the burn of the alcohol to fade then return your glass to the bar.  
  
The girl's laughing at your side, “Not much of a whiskey man, are you?”  
  
“Nope,” You cough, and her laughter grows. She pats you on the back to ease your hacking and when it finally dies down to a few wheezes, the bartender has returned. She plucks the glasses from you with an knowing smile.  
  
“Don't feel bad, sweetie. Nat, here, could drink me under the table,” Then she turns, pointing at the girl, Nat, “And _you._ Boy's off limits; he's got himself a southern boyfriend and I'm not going to stand here and watch you corrupt him.”  
  
Nat rolls her eyes, “You never let me have any fun, Roxy.”  
  
“And I never intend to. Keep it G-rated, kids. Anything I can get you?”  
  
You shake your head, but Nat asks for a couple more beers. You open your mouth to decline, but the beers are there before you can manage. You really should leave, but Nat smiles at you and you figure you can stay a little longer.  
  
You talk for a bit about your job at the hospital and how she's taking classes down at the the university and wants to be a lawyer. She's quite intelligent and easy to talk to. She's got a snappy retort for every one of your stupid jabs and though her only experience in biology was in the eighth grade, she keeps up well with your medical ramblings. Were you not hopelessly smitten with Dave, you might've asked if you could get her number and maybe take her out on a date or two.  
  
Before you know it, that one drink turned into several and you were well beyond tipsy.  
  
Roxy was shooting you looks as she mixed drinks, but you stopped noticing them about a half hour ago. You think Nat's still pretty sober because she's poking fun at your drunken antics and when she waves Roxy over to pay, she doesn't fumble with her wallet or have any problem counting out the correct bills. Roxy returns with the change and drops it in Nat's waiting palm before turning to face you.  
  
Her brow's creased and she's frowning and all you can really think is that she should be smiling instead because she looks prettier that way.  
  
“Want me to call you a cab, hon?” She asks, her hands hovering awkwardly like she wants to reach out and touch you but she can't, “You've had a lot to drink.”  
  
“That's alright, Rox, I can get him home,” Nat says. She stands, adjusting her skirt on her hips and offers you a hand. Your standing isn't as smooth, and you nearly topple over before she hooks an arm under yours and hoists you to a relatively vertical position with more strength than you would've thought she had.  
  
“You sure?” Roxy looks uncertain, and her hand is still raised like she wants to grab you.  
  
“We'll be _fine,”_ Nat's brow is creased now, too. She looks a bit like a petulant child.  
  
Roxy sighs, and her hand falls back down to her side, “Alright. But no funny business, you hear me, Nat? You get him home to his _boyfriend_ and then you scurry your little ass back to your loft.”  
  
“Yes, mom.”  
  
Roxy rolls her eyes and then Nat's leading you toward the door. Everything's a little fuzzy, but it's not like you've never been drunk before. Hell, at Rose's twenty-first birthday you'd blacked out and woke with your head in the toilet and scribbled drawings on your face courtesy of Jade. You feel a little bad that she's practically carrying you and you're totally drunk while she's mostly sober, but you can't find it in yourself to really care.  
  
She takes you out of the bar and shimmies you both over to the side so you're out of the doorway.  
  
“So, Johnny,” She says, and you hate that nickname but you don't comment, “Where do you live?”  
  
Your brow pinches as you try to remember. You know the directions, you think, but you can't think of the address. You wrack your brain as best you can, your cheeks puffing out. You mumble something that you think _might_ be the address, but it's incoherent and Nat just laughs at you.  
  
“Okay, look, I'll take you back to my place and you can crash on my couch. I'll drive you home in the morning when you're sober enough to actually tell me where you live.”  
  
You shouldn't, you know you shouldn't. Even if you sulk in separate rooms, you and Dave never stay out all night after a fight. But you're getting tired and you really can't remember your address, so you mumble an affirmative and she grins and starts walking—in the opposite direction of your own home, your muddled brain supplies helpfully.  
  
She chatters while she walks, telling you about her siblings and how she'd had a pretty messy break up with her last boyfriend a few months back. Since then, she'd gotten a reputation for picking up guys at that bar, hence Roxy's chastising remarks. You mumble replies, and she laughs at your slurred speech. You're going to be embarrassed about this in the morning, but at this point, you couldn't possibly care less.  
  
She wrestles you into the elevator at her building and you stare in confusion at the panel where the buttons would've been—there are keyholes instead. You peer at it with a furrowed brow and pursed lips until Nat snorts and muscles you out of the way. She plucks a key from her pocket and twists it into the top space.  
  
“You okay, there, John?” She asks with a giggle, “I know, elevators are terribly confusing.”  
  
You groan and slump sulkily against the wall.  
  
When the elevator stops, she pulls your arm around her neck and takes you into her loft. It's wide and spacious, with a lower level across the way, near the windows.  
  
“Couch is this way,” She says, pushing you to the left and sending you sprawling onto a very comfortable leather couch. No way a college student can afford something like this. But you don't dwell on that now because wow this couch is really comfortable and you're a lot more tired than you were before.  
  
“Don't fall asleep, John. Let me at least get you out of your jeans.”  
  
Her fingers are small and dextrous as she pops the button of your jeans open and you sink back into the cushions. You don't know when you closed your eyes but you do know that you were imagining Dave there beside you. He likes undressing you; he sometimes says it's his favorite part of sex. You imagine that it's Dave beside you, hooking his fingers into the loops of your jeans and tugging them down your hips. You imagine his fingers trailing teasingly along your thighs, his lips hovering just below your navel breathing cool puffs of air onto your flushed skin.  
  
Fantasizing about Dave probably wasn't your best plan, admittedly. But it's not like you were sober enough to realize that.  
  
“Oh goodness.”  
  
You open your eyes again, dragging yourself forcefully back to the present.  
  
Nat's stooped over you, fingers curled into the waistband of your jeans, which are now around your ankles. She's not looking at your jeans, though. She's looking at-  
  
Oh.  
  
Yeah, fantasizing about your boyfriend isn't the best move when you're drunk and a girl's taking off your pants.  
  
She tilts her head, contemplating something for a moment. Then she reaches up and tugs your boxers down, too, exposing your really, really embarrassing boner.  
  
“What're you doing?” You slur, “What're you _doing?”_  
  
“Helping,” She says simply and then her hand is on you and you jolt. That shouldn't feel good, it definitely shouldn't because that's not Dave's hand. It's a stranger—because no matter how much you and Nat talked, you met her tonight—there's a stranger with her hand on your dick while your boyfriend's back home and probably wondering where you are.  
  
“No. Boyfriend,” You say, trying to shift away but only succeeding in moving her hand and sending a shudder up your spine, “I have boyfriend. Dave. _Dave.”_  
  
You're not sure whether you're reminding yourself or calling for help.  
With her free hand, she pulls the pins from her hair, lets it fall in dark curls over her shoulders. She leans down and presses her lips to yours and it's wrong, wrong, _wrong_ but when her tongue slides along your lips, you part them without thinking. She breathes into your mouth and you think she might be laughing and the thought makes your stomach churn.  
  
“He won't mind,” She says breathlessly as she pulls back. Her hand is gone and the relief shakes you down to your core. Maybe she'll go to bed, now; maybe she'll let you roll over and will away your boner and sleep off all the alcohol. But she just shimmies out of her skirt and her underwear and tosses a leg over your hips. She seats herself on your thighs and drags her fingers through your hair and along your scalp.  
  
“I'm a girl,” She murmurs, “Girls don't count when you're gay.”  
  
That's a lie. That's a filthy fucking lie and you know it, but she slides back a little, down your legs and god, her legs are so soft. And then her lips are circling around the head of your cock and you make a startled, broken noise. It feels so good and it makes you sick. She slides down, her tongue curling along the shaft and you're shaking beneath her, coming apart in all the wrong ways.  
  
She makes a keening noise and you don't want to look but you do. One of her hands is curled around the base of your dick and the other is between her thighs. You pull a hand to your lips and bite harshly on to the flesh just beneath the knuckle of your thumb.  
  
The pain drags your mind away from what's happening just for a moment.  
  
Then her mouth is gone and your spit-slick cock is hit with the cool air of her apartment enough to make your erection wilt, thank _god._ But her hand is back and she's moving up again, parting her thighs and situating herself above you.  
  
“No,” You croak, releasing your hand from your own jaws with a trail of saliva. You should shove her off but you can't, she's a _girl_ and you're _drunk_ and your head is spinning, “No, _please.”_  
  
She shushes you and puts her hands on your chest as she sinks down.  
  
Everything is too hot and constricting and you can feel the panic building in your chest. The world is closing in around you and you're breathing way too fast and you're probably crying.  
  
She seats herself on your hips with a breathy moan. Her chest is heaving and her face is flushed.  
  
Everything about her is too dark. Her hair, her skin, her eyes. She's not Dave and you can't even pretend she is. After a moment, she rolls her hips like she's experimenting.  
  
She gasps.  
  
You whimper.  
  
Her fingers curl around your wrists and she draws your hands up to her breasts.  
  
“Shush, baby,” She whispers, “Just touch me.”  
  
–  
  
You wake in the morning feeling like your head's been split in two.  
  
You try to open your eyes and groan because the world is way, way too bright. Why would Dave have the lights on? He of all people should know about light-sensitivity. You roll onto your side, away from the blinding lights and realize that you're not in your bed. You ease your eyes open and are met with leather.  
  
You're on a leather couch.  
  
You're on a leather couch underneath a soft blanket and you're not wearing pants.  
  
Last night comes crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your stomach churns and flips and you roll right back over, ignoring the explosion of pain in your head, and vomit on the floor next to the couch. You cough and choke and splutter; the bile burns your mouth and leaves a film over your tongue and palate.  
  
“God, you couldn't make it to the toilet?”  
  
You hear the soft patter of bare feet and then there's a hand rubbing circles into your back. You lurch away.  
  
“Don't touch me,” You manage before your stomach heaves again.  
  
She scoffs, “You're in my loft, vomiting on my floor and I made you breakfast. I'm fairly certain that I've earned the right to touch you.”  
  
Her hand is back, and it massages at the back of your neck. It's _too much too close too soon_ and you vomit again.  
  
“Oh, baby. I'll go get you some water.”  
  
She leaves and your stomach quiets. Your head still hurts, but you can move without bile rising in your throat. You turn a little and look around. Your jeans and boxers are folded neatly on the coffee table a few feet from you. You crawl to the other side of the couch to avoid the pools of vomit you'd made and tug your boxers on beneath the blanket.  
  
Then you swing your legs to the floor and stand. You sway and the room spins, so you squeeze your eyes shut and focus no matter how much it hurts. When you open your eyes again, everything's a little steadier. You grab your jeans and shake them out, clumsily jamming your legs inside and nearly falling over in the process.  
  
You feel sick, and it's more than the hangover.  
  
You feel grimy and disgusting from the inside out, like the filth is clawing its way out of you rather than just sitting on your skin. The muscles in your throat spasm to try to vomit again, but you choke down the urge. Right now, you just want to get home.  
  
“Whoa, buddy, where do you think you're going?” Nat slips back into the room carrying two mugs of coffee. You can barely smell them over the pervading stench of puke, though.  
  
“Home,” You croak, struggling to button your jeans as your vision swims and your fingers feel two sizes too large.  
  
“In your condition? Won't you at least stay for breakfast?”  
  
You mean to decline her, to politely refuse her hospitality and flee to the elevator.  
  
Instead, you snap, “I said no.”  
  
She halts, startled, and her eyebrows raise, “Uh. I didn't hear you, bud. You don't like coffee or something?”  
  
“No!” You bite out, “I said no last-last night. When you- when-”  
  
“You mean when _we_ had sex?” She asks, and any sense of playfulness has left her voice. She turns back around and puts the mugs on the counter. She crosses her arms almost defensively, which is almost laughable.  
  
“No,” You say, “When _you-”_  
  
She laughs, shrill and a little hysterical and it's not as charming as it was last night, “Oh my god, do you think I _raped_ you?”  
  
When you don't reply, she laughs harder. Like this is some sort of joke. Like what she did was funny and you calling her on it was somehow _comedic._  
  
“Sorry, baby, but it doesn't work like that,” she says when her laughter subsides, “Yeah, maybe you were getting guilty over your precious boytoy's feelings, but your dick was hard as a rock.”  
  
Rage floods your veins. Your hands tremble at your sides. How dare she talk about Dave. How dare she think that she could even _mention_ him.  
  
“But I _said-”_  
  
“What you say and what's true aren't always the same, baby,” She snaps, “It's called lying. Don't try to make me the bad guy when you were the one who cheated on your boyfriend.”  
  
That makes the anger flee faster than anything. It's gone in a flash, leaving only guilt and terror in its place. God, you cheated on Dave. You _cheated_ on _Dave_ because you were drunk and there was a pretty girl flirting with you at the bar. Your breath hitches and you stumble back.  
  
You need to go. You need to go _now._ You need to go home and apologize and hope that, at the very least, he gives you time to grab some clothes before he kicks your sorry ass out of the apartment.  
  
She tries to say something but you're already at the elevator and there's a roaring in your ears so you wouldn't be able to hear her even if you were trying. You jam at the button and maybe there is a god because the doors open almost immediately and you stumble inside. Beneath the rows of keyholes, there's a square button with an L and you think you sprain your thumb with how harshly you jab it. The doors slide shut and you sag against the wall. Your head is still killing you and- oh god.  
  
Your stomach heaves and you twist around and vomit in the corner of the elevator.  
  
The stink burns your eyes and the elevator ride takes way too long. The doorman gives you a filthy look as you bolt for the front doors the moment the elevator's stopped. It's not till you get outside and your feet hit pavement that you realize you hadn't taken the time to put on your shoes.  
  
You don't really care because you'd rather walk home barefoot than go back up to the loft.  
  
As you navigate the Seattle streets, your feet throb and you occasionally lurch into an alley way to heave up stomach acid because there's nothing else left for you to throw up. You try to figure out what you'll say to Dave. How do you explain this? How can you make this easier, cushion the blow, not hurt him?  
  
That's silly, of course. You've already hurt him. You hurt him the moment you agreed to stay a little longer for a drink. You should've had your beer and gone straight home. You should've toughed out the hours laying on the couch with a book. You should've been there when Dave slunk out and wedged himself between you and the couch, cuddling you close to his chest and murmuring apologies.  
  
You should have been apologizing last night on your own couch for something that wasn't really your fault.  
  
This? This was all on you.  
  
In the end, though, you don't stay anything.  
  
Dave's asleep when you get home, so you cut into your bedroom and stuff your feet into a pair of socks. Then you fish your duffel out of the closet, and you think that hurts the most. You haven't used your duffel in years. You used to keep it packed up under your bed just in case, but you hadn't needed its security for a long, long time.  
  
You're carefully tucking clothes into it when your bedroom door opens.  
  
“John? Is that you?”  
  
Dave's standing in your door in his boxers. His hair is sleep mussed and his cheeks are flushed and he's not wearing his glasses because he trusts you. Or he did, at least.  
  
He just woke up, so it takes him a moment to fully register your appearance. The bloodshot eyes, your shoeless feet, the two buttons open on your shirt revealing hickies across your collar bone, the stubborn stench of sex and sweat and vomit.  
  
For a moment, he just stares.  
  
You want to say his name. You want to apologize. You want to reach for him and sob into his shirt that you're sorry that you feel filthy and wretched and awful. But you wait, instead.  
  
His eyes harden. His brow furrows. His lips pull tight.  
  
“Get out,” he says harshly.  
  
You don't care that you weren't finished packing or that your toothbrush is still in the bathroom. You zip up your duffel and toss it over your shoulder. He watches you as you walk in front of him. He's a tall, looming presence and the feelings of pain and betrayal are rolling off him in waves. They're practically tangible.  
  
You leave your key on the table before you walk out the door.  
  
\--  
  
You're not sure why you go back to the bar. It should be the last place you want to go, really. But you find yourself there and you sink to the ground with your back against the wall where you and Nat had been standing when she asked you if she could just take you home with her.  
  
You sit on the ground and stare at your socked feet and you cry. You cry in great, shuddering sobs and it's only seconds before you're soaked down to your collar with tears.  
  
“John?”  
  
You startle and look up. Roxy's standing in front of you, eyes wide and key in hand. There's another girl with her, shorter and thicker with dark hair and wide blue eyes. They're both staring at you. You wish you were articulate and you could actually form a coherent thought. The most you can manage is,  
  
“I fucked up.”  
  
Roxy frowns and turns to her friend, “Janey, honey, can you open up for me? I need to-”  
  
Janey doesn't wait for an explanation. She takes the key from Roxy's hand, kisses her cheek and walks into the bar after sending you a sad smile. She's nice, you think. You like her already.  
  
“Come on, John,” Roxy says as she offers you a hand.  
  
–  
  
Roxy takes you back to her apartment. You have a panic attack in the elevator and she crouches next to you and rubs your back and murmurs idle comforts and reminds you to breathe. When you're okay again, she takes you inside, and you don't miss how she makes a point of not touching you. That should probably make you feel dirtier, like she doesn't want to touch you because you're disgusting and tainted, but you don't think she's doing it out of malice.  
  
She directs you to the shower and tells you to leave your dirty clothes in the hall so she can put them in the wash. She hands you an unused loofah and says you can use any of the soaps in there. You thank her quietly and she just smiles.  
  
You spend longer than you should in the shower. You're probably wasting all her hot water, but you just can't seem to get clean. You scrub at your skin until it's raw and shampoo your hair three times, but nothing works. It's like you're dirty under your skin and the harder you dig to get to the taint, the further it delves until it soaks into your bones.  
  
You're pink and raw by the time you shut the water off, and for the first time in your life, you're thankful for fluffy towels. You dress yourself in sweats and a large tee-shirt that used to be your cousin, Jake's. You're unsure where to hang your towel, so you end up draping it on the door knob before venturing out into the apartment.  
  
It's smaller than yours and Dave's, but definitely cozier. The walls are painted a rich maroon and they're decorated with photos of Roxy and Janey and those you assume are their friends. The carpet is warm and soft under your feet as you pad out into the living area. Roxy's sitting on the couch, talking on the phone. She notes your presence, raises a hand and quickly ends the call.  
  
“Hey, sweetie,” She says softly, “You wanna talk?”  
  
You nod mutely and she gestures toward the couch. You hesitate for a moment but swallow your mounting terror and sit. You're on opposite ends with a cushion between you, and Roxy doesn't comment on it.  
  
There's silence for a moment, then you blurt,  
  
“I cheated.”  
  
Roxy tucks her knees up to her chest and turns to face you, motioning for you to continue.  
  
“I slept with Nat. I cheated on Dave. I- last night, I couldn't remember my address, so she asked if I just wanted to crash at her place. I mean, it was an innocent enough request because if I tried to get home we would've ended up lost. And then it just kind of...it just kind of _happened_ and I feel so guilty and disgusting because I _cheated._ I shouldn't have even had a drink with her, anyway. I should've gone home because even if Dave and I are fighting we don't stay out all night and we don't...we don't sleep with other people. God, I'm the lowest of the low, fuck-”  
  
“Breathe, John.”  
  
You gulp in air, not having realized that you'd stopped breathing at all. Your head spins and you grip the couches arm to ground yourself.  
  
“I shouldn't have let Nat take you home,” Roxy says, “I'm so sorry, John. I know how she is.”  
  
You laugh a little, but it's too loud, “It's not your fault I can't keep it in my pants.”  
  
“You were one of my customers,” She insists, “It's my job to make sure that you're equipped to make it home safe when you leave my bar. Letting you leave with Nat was not safe.”  
  
She drags her fingers through her hair and sags back onto the couch. Guilt gnaws at your gut. She shouldn't blame herself.  
  
“Dave kicked me out,” you say after a moment's silence.  
  
Roxy frowns, “Oh, John. Look, you can stay here, alright? At least for a little while. Dave might come around, he might want to talk. If not, you can stay till you get back on your feet.”  
  
You sit up straight, waving your hands, “No, I couldn't impose.”  
  
“This is partially my fault,” She says with finality, “I'm going to assume responsibility. The guest room's at the end of the hall. Go get some sleep, sweetie. I've got to get back to the bar.”  
  
You want to argue further—she barely knows you, why on earth would she let you stay at her apartment? But she gives you a pointed look and she reminds you a lot of your friend Rose so you slump down and agree. She says she'll be home around five and Jane will be cooking dinner and then she's gone with the close of the door and a click of the lock.  
  
You sigh and stand, trying to ignore the way your skin crawls and your desire to claw it off to get the filth out. You're exhausted and the pain in your head is _agonizing_ so you slump to the room she'd directed you to. It's decorated sparsely, but the bed's a queen, so you're not going to complain. You shimmy under the covers and as you start to drift off to sleep, you think vaguely that staying here will probably piss off Dave even more.  
  
But you'll worry about that tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah
> 
> there's not a lot of recognition that women can be rapists just as easily as men can, and i dunno, this kind of happened
> 
> sorry


	2. Chapter 2

You wake disoriented.  
  
There are muffled voices filtering through the walls, and it smells like something's cooking. The bed you're curled up in is far too comfortable to be yours and you definitely don't recognize the room. You sit up, shoving the blankets down around your hips.  
  
It only takes a second for the panic to seize your chest.  
  
Your lungs feel three sizes too small, and your throat closes around what little breathing you can manage. Your hands are shaking as they curl into the fabric of your sweatshirt, and you can't hear anything but the throbbing roar of your own heartbeat. You're drowning and the darkness behind your eyelids is swallowing you whole.  
  
You curl in on your self, pressing your forehead to your knees. The lack of oxygen burns and you can feel the tears soaking into the blankets pulled tight around your legs. You're going to die, you're sure of it. You're going to die in a stranger's bed after hurting your best friend unforgivably.  
  
You don't know how long you're sitting there with brittle, wheezing breaths barely shuddering their way past your lips when you vaguely hear the door closing and there's someone sinking onto the bed beside you. They're close enough that you can feel their presence, but they aren't touching you, and you're grateful for that. A touch would probably make you fall apart.  
  
“Hush, John,” The voice is warm and gentle, “You're alright. Just breathe.”  
  
 _It's not that easy,_ you want to say, _if it was I would be doing it._  
  
“Panic can't hurt you,” The voice continues, “You're okay. You're safe.”  
  
That's a lie. That's a lie. It can hurt you; it is hurting you.  
  
You grind your teeth together and a whine works its way out of your throat. You're going to die, you're going to die, _you are going to die._  
  
“You are _not_ going to die, John. The panic will pass, and you will be fine.”  
  
The voice continues talking steadily, and you find your breaths falling into sync with the rhythm of the words. The pressure in your chest eases until you're not gasping and your heart falls back into a steady beat. Your shaking doesn't subside, but you feel well enough to lift your head to see who was with you.  
  
You'd expected Roxy, but it's Jane sitting beside you. Her dark hair is pushed back with a hair band, and she's wearing an baby blue apron over the clothes you'd seen her in earlier. She smiles gently, and it makes her round eyes scrunch a little behind her glasses. You try to smile back, but you think you only really manage a quiver at the corners of your lips.  
  
“Feel better?” She asks, and you swallow before nodding mutely.  
  
She pats the bed lightly, and you note the way her eyes flicker down to make sure she doesn't hit your leg, “Roxy ran out to get some bread, but I made spaghetti for dinner. I figured that after your night you wouldn't want anything too heavy.”  
  
“Yeah,” You rasp.  
  
She stands, smoothing the creases in her apron before moving to the door.  
  
“Come out whenever you're ready. Roxy will probably be a few more minutes.”  
  
The closes the door quietly behind you and leaves you feeling flushed and embarrassed. These ladies let you into their home, offered to let you _stay_ in their home, and you'd repaid them by having a panic attack in the bed they'd given you. So much for the gentlemanly manners your father had taught you.  
  
You push the blankets down further and swing your legs off. Your head hurts a little less, and now that you don't feel like your stomach's doing acrobatics, you realize you're kind of hungry. You hadn't eaten much yesterday because you were working and you hadn't had time today between your rather brutal wake up call and getting kicked out of your apartment.  
  
After running a hand through your hair in an attempt to tame it—sleeping on it wet was a bad idea on your part—you go to reach for your glasses before realizing that you don't have them. You probably left them at Nat's along with your shoes, socks and tie. The panic spikes again, but you manage to smother it down before it can sink its claws into you again.  
  
You decide to forget about your glasses for the time being. You're only a little near-sighted, so it's not like you're disabled without them. There's an extra pair back at your—no, _Dave's_ —apartment, so you'll have to tough it out until Dave lets you get the rest of your stuff.  
  
You venture out into the hall, shutting the door as quietly as you can manage. It smells more strongly out here, like herbs and tomatoes and garlic, and your stomach growls a little in response. You hear Jane singing in the kitchen. It's off-key, but her voice has a pleasant flow, low and smooth and oddly comforting.  
  
Your feet whisper along the carpet as you examine the photos on the wall. Roxy and Jane are usually the focus. There are pictures of them at a beach, at a park, kissing on the balcony of their apartment. There are photos with them and some friends—a thin, sickly girl with snow white hair and greyish skin; a tall, gangly boy with a lazy grin and paint smeared over his face; a blonde boy standing next to what looks like a robot; and-  
  
Is that...?  
  
You frown, studying the photo nearest the mouth of the hallway. You scrutinize it for a few minutes before deciding that there was no way it could be anyone else; you'd know those buck teeth and short-shorts anywhere.  
  
You shuffle into the living room and spot Jane standing at the stove in the conjoined kitchen. You move to stand in the doorway, watching her stir the viscous, vividly red liquid in the pot, and wait for her to notice your presence.  
  
She does so with a smile.  
  
“Hey there.”  
  
“Hi,” You say, and though you really should be thanking her for her hospitality, you've never never really had a functioning brain-to-mouth filter, “You know Jake?”  
  
Her eyebrows raise, “Jake English? Yeah, he's a friend; he was mine and Roxy's roommate when we first moved here. Do _you_ know him?”  
  
You nod, “He's...uh, he's my cousin.”  
  
“Oh!” Jane's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline just as the door opens and Roxy swoops in with a brown bag you assume has the bread. She skirts past you without touching, flashing you a grin before handing off the bread to Jane and kissing her cheek.  
  
“Smells great, Janey.”  
  
Jane rolls her eyes, “Of course it does. Now, did you know that Jake is John's cousin?”  
  
Roxy's eyes shift over to you and she sighs dramatically, sagging against the counter.  
  
“I've been found out, huh? I was hoping that I could pretend to be a selfless Samaritan for a little while longer.”  
  
She turns and pulls some plates out of the cupboard behind her. She waves you over and hands them to you before fishing forks out of the drawer just to Jane's right. She leads you back into the living room and instructs you to put the plates on the coffee table before sitting on the couch and motioning for you to do the same.  
  
“I recognized you immediately,” She explains, “Well, not _you,_ of course, but you're the spitting image of Jake. I called him when I got off work last night and he told me about you. That's why I'm letting you stay here; I wouldn't let just anyone into the apartment I share with my girlfriend.”  
  
 _“I_ didn't know that,” Jane calls from the kitchen where she's slicing the loaf of bread, “I thought she'd gone crazy—no offense, John.”  
  
You snort, “None taken, Jane.”  
  
A few moments later, Jane's walking in with a bowl of spaghetti balanced on her hip and a basket of sliced bread in her hand. She places them both on the table then goes back to the kitchen to retrieve a serving spoon, which she deposits in the bowl before situating herself between you and Roxy on the couch.  
  
“Bon appetit,” she says, “The sauce is made from scratch; family recipe.”  
  
After Roxy gives you a little nod, you take the spoon and serve yourself up a small portion of the spaghetti and pluck a slice of bread from the basket. You hesitate a little then, waiting for them to start eating before you do. You splutter a little as you swallow the first bite.  
  
“This is _great,”_ you mumble around your mouthful, “Wow.”  
  
Jane grins and thanks you. You're mostly silent while you eat, letting Roxy and Jane carry the conversation. They tell you about Jake, and their other roommate, Dirk. They explain how Jake just decided one day that he was going to explore the world—something that he'd _assured_ you and his parents that he'd put a lot of thought into—and how Dirk had casually decided to go with him. Jane rolls her eyes at that and says that Dirk had a ridiculously huge crush on Jake and probably would've followed him no matter where he decided to go.  
  
Roxy swats her, “Don't make fun, Janey. It's _romantic.”_  
  
Jane snorts, “No, Rox, when I take you to a nice restaurant and bring you home to a candle lit apartment and a bed covered in rose petals— _that's_ romantic.”  
  
Roxy flushes and returns deliberately to eating her spaghetti.  
  
When dinner wraps up, you offer to do the dishes. Jane doesn't agree until you come to a compromise—you'll rinse and scrape, she'll load the dishwasher.  
  
“I can pay rent,” You say as you scrub stubborn marinara from a plate, “I mean, I'm only a first year resident, so I don't get paid much, but I can definitely pitch in.”  
  
Jane scoffs, “John, you're Jake's cousin, and Roxy didn't give you much choice in staying with us. We're not going to make you pay.”  
  
“I want to,” You hand the plate to her, “I'm not sure how long I'm going to be staying, and right now, I'm homeless, not unemployed.”  
  
She heaves a heavy, put-upon sigh and shuts the dishwasher. Turning to face you, she looks you in the eye for a long moment. You're getting a little uncomfortable and shifting your weight from foot-to-foot when she finally speaks.  
  
“Fine. If it'll make you feel better. How does six-hundred a month sound?”  
  
“Jane, that can't be _nearly_ enough.”  
  
She huffs, “I'm not budging. I don't want you to pay at all. You're a struggling young doctor and it would be cruel of me to drain your bank account when Roxy and I are more than well off.”  
  
“Don't try to argue,” Roxy calls from the couch, “She's stubborn.”  
  
You frown, look at the determined furrow of her brow and the set of her lips, and relent,  
  
“Fine. Six-hundred.”  
  
–  
  
You have work the next day. You're still bone-tired and it's hard to pry yourself from the warm comforts of the bed, but you manage.  
  
The hospital is busy, as it always is, and the bustling bodies, mechanical noises and pervading scent of antiseptic are comforting. You lose yourself in your work; you can't think about yourself when you're assisting patients and chatting with the nurses and scribbling down charts and paperwork. It's a comfortable, familiar exhaustion seeping into your bones as you flop onto a bed in the break room during your lunch.  
  
You should eat something, but after last night's dinner, the thought of eating food from the hospital's cafeteria makes your stomach churn. Your eyes are sore because you still don't have your glasses, so you shut them and fling your arm across them.  
  
The door opens, but you don't look up, not until there's a weight on the bed.  
  
Startled, you slide your arm up to your forehead and squint. The room's dark, but you can make out Rose's face. She looks detached, and the only indication of her feelings the small crease deepening between her eyebrows.  
  
She studies you for a while in silence. Her gaze penetrates, peels away your defenses and leaves you raw and vulnerable, and while that weirded you out before, it makes you want to lurch away, now. You want to scramble off the bed and curl in on yourself and ask her to leave, please leave.  
  
Finally, though, her eyes flicker away to a far wall and she leans back against one of the poles supporting the the top bunk.  
  
“Was she pretty?” She asks.  
  
You want to roll over and tell her you don't know what she's talking about, but you don't. Instead, you think of Nat, of her thick, curly hair, of her long lashes and glossy lips, the curve of her neck and the swell of her hips and breasts. You think of how her skirt fit around her legs, shifting with every movement, how the vibrant red fabric of her shirt contrasted against the darkness of skin. You think of the way she curved over you, the way her fingers locked around your wrists. You think of the heat of her body and that gasps that fell from her lips.  
  
After a moment, you answer, “No.”  
  
You're not lying.  
  
“Was she worth it?”  
  
Your voice cracks and you cover your eyes with your arm again, _“No.”_  
  
“You hurt him, John,” Rose says, and your chest aches, “Enough that he didn't bother pretending that nothing was wrong when he called last night.”  
  
There's silence, then Rose moves a little and her hand settles on your arm, and you freeze.  
  
It's like your body forgets how to function. Your breathing halts, your muscles seize, and your entire body goes rigid at her touch. Your heart is pounding erratically, and with each pulse, your body quivers.  
  
Rose is nothing if not observant, and her hand's gone almost as soon as it was there. It takes a few minutes for your body to relax, and when it does, you scramble immediately to your feet. You twist and your back hits the wall, and you realize suddenly how small the room is.  
  
“John?”  
  
You jolt. Rose stands from the bed and walks around it slowly. The furrow in her brow has deepened and her lips are turned down at the corners.  
  
“Sorry,” You rasp, “Scared me.”  
  
Her frown doesn't lessen, “John, are you alright?”  
  
“Fine,” You say, “I just...I already miss him.”  
  
It's not a lie, exactly, but it still makes your gut twist. The last thing you need to be doing is lying to your friends, but what were you supposed to tell her? It's not like you understand why you froze up, why you feel like you might crawl out the window if she steps any closer.  
  
She seems to understand, and you thank the heavens above that Rose knows you better than you've ever known yourself. She leans against the beds, eyes narrowed, and she's examining you again. You cross your arms defensively.  
  
“You didn't have to lose him,” She says quietly. It's a harsh, like a slap to the face, and you flinch but you know you deserve it. You deserve it more than anyone.  
  
“I know,” You croak, “And I understand if you...if you don't want to be friends anymore.”  
  
Rose looks startled by that. Her eyebrows shoot up and her lips move like she's speaking but she makes no noise. She closes her mouth again, swallows, and tries again,  
  
“Oh, John. I'm upset and I'm...I'm disappointed, but I won't condemn you over a mistake. Dave means a lot to me, but so do you.”  
  
You nod and take a deep, shuddering breath to halt the tears burning in your eyes.  
  
She sighs and turns toward the door, “I should get back to work. You can call me if you need anything, okay?”  
  
She swings the door open and stops, tossing a look over her shoulder, “Also, you should avoid Jade. She's on a war path.”  
  
–  
  
Avoiding Jade would be much easier, of course, if she didn't seem to always know exactly where you are at all times. You're half a block away from the hospital after your shift when a fist comes flying out of nowhere and connects painfully with your jaw.  
  
It's nearly ten o' clock at night so there's really no one around, but you're still embarrassed by the very unmanly squeak you make before your ass meets the pavement. Jade's standing over you, chest heaving, eyes wide and furious with her hands balled tightly into fists at her sides.  
  
“You _asshole,”_ she bites out, “You're a stupid fucking cock sucking, ass licking _fuck.”_  
  
Karkat's definitely been rubbing off on her; her grandpa would've blushed like a virgin if he heard the way she swore. You're still reeling from the punch, so you can't process her words quickly enough to respond before she's sucking in a lungful of air and continuing,  
  
“How could you _do_ that? I didn't- I never would have thought you were even remotely capable of...of cheating! I thought you were so much better than that! Dave loves you so much and he trusted you. I know he can be a prick and I know that all his cool kid shit stopped being endearing when we were, like, sixteen, but he doesn't deserve this! You couldn't have just broken up with him? You had to...to go pick up some chick at a bar? That's low, John, that's really fucking low. You're my best friend, but right now I think that you're the scum of the earth. _God!”_  
  
Her voice pitches upward, skirting along the edges of hysteria. She wrenches her beanie off of her head with one hand and uses the other to drag her fingers roughly through her hair. She spins on her heel and breathes raggedly for a moment.  
  
Her words cut deep, and you think you'd prefer if if she just punched you some more.  
  
She whirls around again and you flinch back.  
  
“I should cut your stupid dick off,” She says, but her voice has less bite to it. It warbles a little and you notice the tears in her eyes, “I should- I should throw you under a bus for how you hurt him.”  
  
“Sorry,” You say weakly, but you keep the, _I think you should throw me under a bus, too,_ to yourself.  
  
Her face crumples and she drops down into a crouch in front of you, pulling her glasses off and putting a hand over her eyes. She sits there for a moment, completely still save the trembling in her shoulders. You want to reach out to her, but you doubt the contact would be welcome, and the thought of touching her makes your stomach plunge.  
  
“I just don't get it,” She whispers, “You two were so...you were so happy. I mean, I _thought_ you were—we all did! I just can't figure out why you'd do it.”  
  
“Me, neither,” You say, and she lifts her head to look at you. Her eyes are wide and open and her naked fury is a startling contrast to Rose's carefully calculated reactions. She breathes deeply and scrubs at her cheeks with the sleeves of her shirt.  
  
She stands, sniffling, and offers you a hand to help you up. You wave it away because you're not sure if you'll react like you did with Rose. You stand on shaking knees and she puts her glasses back on.  
  
“I'd say I'm sorry about the punch, but I'm not,” She says, “You...uh, you got a place to stay?”  
  
You nod, “I'm staying with Jane and Roxy. They're friends of Jake.”  
  
Her eyes flash to you for a moment, brow knotting, “They're not-”  
  
“What? No!” You cry, voice pitching up an octave higher than usual, “No, god- _god_ no.”  
  
Her shoulders sag, and a breath puffs from her lips. “Okay. Well, I should let you-” she halts for a moment and her lips purse, “Bye John.”  
  
Then she passes you, her shoulder clipping yours as she goes. You ignore how your chest tightens and start the trek back to Roxy and Jane's apartment.  
  
It's not until you get there that you realize you don't have a key. The door's locked and no one's answering, so you figure they must still be working at the bar. You consider waiting it out here, sitting in the hall till one of them comes home, but they have neighbors and you'd probably scare them and get kicked out of the building.  
  
Instead, you walk to the bar.  
  
“John!” Jane spies you from across the room, balancing an empty tray on her hip, “What're you doing here?”  
  
“No key,” You say, moving to the side to clear the doorway for a young couple, “I couldn't exactly get into the apartment.”  
  
“Oh, geeze. Hold on a sec, I'll get you mine. You wanna sit for a drink?”  
  
You swallow thickly, and your eyes find the stools where you and Nat had been sitting Tuesday night. You politely decline.  
  
Jane disappears into a back room and Roxy waves at you from behind the bar. You lift your hand in response and then Jane's hurrying back, and she's got more than keys in her hand.  
  
“Nat dropped by,” She says, “Brought your stuff.”  
  
She hands you your shoes. Your socks and tie are stuffed into one, your glasses in the other. They reek of her perfume and you bite your tongue and swallow down the bile rising in your throat. You take them from her and then she hands you a key.  
  
“John, your cheek!” Jane says suddenly, lifting her hand and letting her fingers hover a little ways away from your bruising cheek, “What happened?”  
  
“It's nothing,” You assure her, “One of my friends, she...didn't take well to the news. I deserved it; don't worry.”  
  
She frowns and looks like she wants to say more, but her shoulders sag and she relents,  
  
“Okay, hon. Well, we'll be home around three, but you don't need to wait up.”  
  
“Thanks, Jane!”  
  
She smiles and waggles her fingers at you before heading back to work. Roxy calls her goodbye across the bar, and you wave, wait for a man to stumble out before you, and leave.  
  
It's dark and cold, this day has been way too long, and you're gonna crash as soon as you get back to the apartment. You'd been trying to brace yourself for your friends' reactions, but it's nothing you could've prepared yourself for. It sucks; it sucks a lot and they both affirmed what you already knew. You fucked up big time, and there's nothing you're ever going to be able to do to make up for it.  
  
Your friends being mad makes your heart clench sharply, but at least you know Dave's not alone. He's got friends— _good_ friends—who care about him.  
  
It's only a small comfort, though.  
  
You get back to the apartment and leave your shoes and socks by the door but taking your glasses into the bedroom with you. You drop onto the bed and stare at them for a while. They've got a few smudges on them, nothing a quick rub of your tee-shirt couldn't handle, and they're completely fine, otherwise.  
  
You imagine Nat taking them off after... _afterwards._ You imagine her thin fingers folding them shut, her thumb brushing accidentally over the lens. You imagine her picking them up again and tucking them into your shoes.  
  
You snap them at the bridge and fling them across the room.  
  
When you crawl into bed, you've never felt more alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing gets easier.  
  
Work weighs down on you, heavy and painful. Going to the hospital never used to be a problem for anyone but Dave. You used to enjoy work. Sure, there were days when you were exhausted and you didn't want to get out of bed, but never before had you dreaded working. You'd never woken in the morning feeling like there was lead in your stomach and a gaping void in your chest. You'd never thought that you'd rather step into traffic than go to work.  
  
Now, though, it's a regular occurrence. Just dragging yourself out of bed every morning is enough to exhaust you.  
  
Your appetite is all but nonexistent. You pick at food when you're home when Jane makes dinner, but you've stopped taking lunch breaks and if you eat breakfast in the mornings, you end up bent over a hospital toilet heaving it out a few hours later. No one notices how loose your clothes are—you barely notice it yourself.  
  
It would bother you that no one pays enough attention to see, but you've realized there's actually no one _to_ see it.  
  
Jane and Roxy have been far better to you than you deserve, but you leave for work before them and they're usually still at the bar when you get home. Rose is pleasant enough, but you only speak when you happen upon each other. She makes no attempts to actively seek out your company. Jade won't talk to you; she barely even looks at you if you cross paths.  
  
And the only other person who would've noticed or cared is Dave, and you haven't even seen him since he kicked you out. He had Rose deliver what was left of your stuff, and you'd been making a point of avoiding places where you might accidentally run into him. You're not sure you can look at him after what you did; you certainly don't deserve to.  
  
But life doesn't pause for your dramatics. You still wake up and go to work every day. At the end of the month, you give Jane the six hundred dollars, and she accepts it reluctantly, reminding you the entire time that she doesn't want or need it. You go through the motions to get through the day, and that's really all you can manage. You let yourself fall into the routine, working yourself to exhaustion so you can crawl in bed at night and fall asleep the second your head hits the pillow at night, not allowing yourself enough time to think about That Night.  
  
The only time when you're forced to remember is when people touch you.  
  
It's usually just in passing—a brush on the arm, a tap on your shoulder. You flinch and jump and shy away from contact when you can. Men aren't so bad. If a male nurse claps you on the back after a diagnoses or a successful treatment, you cringe away more out of reflex than anything else. But if it's a woman, your throat closes and your chest tightens and panic floods your veins. The terror hits you like a punch to the gut and it's hard to pass it off when they draw their hands back with furrowed brows and questions on their lips. You haven't had a reaction as bad as you'd had with Rose, but it's no less terrifying to have your body betray your brain's commands no matter how hard you try to keep control.  
  
Rose is the one who finally notices a problem.  
  
It's about a month after That Night, and your supervisor has insisted you take a break. You're sitting outside the hospital smoking a cigarette—a habit you'd broken years ago when you'd started medical school, and she's walking out of the hospital for her own lunch break. She spots you there, cigarette between your lips, and wastes no time in marching over and plucking it from your fingers.  
  
“You quit,” She says simply. She drops the cigarette and grinds it into the pavement with the heel of her shoe.  
  
You snort a little bitterly, “With everything that's happened, I don't think that smoking a cigarette is my greatest transgression.”  
  
She frowns, “That doesn't mean you need to add it to the list.”  
  
You scowl and push away from the wall, ready to be done with the break that you really didn't need. You turn to walk toward the door, but Rose catches your arm and you freeze. This time, she doesn't let go. Your jaw is clenched tight, your teeth pressing together hard enough that pain is radiating down through your neck. Your breath comes in short bursts and you swear your heart is going to burst through your chest by the time she finally lets go. You hit the wall immediately, sucking in deep lungfuls of air.  
  
“John...look. Come get lunch with me tomorrow. I have the day off, and I'm sure that if you ask, you can get it off, too.”  
  
“Why would they give me the day off? Especially on such short notice?”  
  
Rose's lips purse, “Because you've been working unpaid overtime for weeks, you didn't use any of your sick days last month, and your supervisor is as worried about you as I am.”  
  
“Oh, you're worried?” You snap, “You sure have a funny way of showing it!”  
  
“What did you want me to do, John?” She drags a hand through her hair, an angry flush high on her cheeks, “I have to work, too. Whenever I see you _here_ you're too busy for me to talk to you, and after work you go straight home, you don't answer your damned phone...god, this is the first time in weeks I've even seen you doing something other than work!”  
  
Her chest heaves with her ragged breaths, and you turn away and cross your arms. Your emotions are warring inside you, guilt pressing down on you from all sides.  
  
Rose makes a quiet noise and squeezes her eyes shut. She pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, and breathes softly for a moment. The two of you stand in silence before she finally speaks again, carefully,  
  
“Sorry...look, will you please just come to lunch with me tomorrow? As a favor to me.”  
  
You swallow thickly and nod.  
  
“Okay,” She fidgets a little with her car keys, “One o' clock at the Vietnamese place Jade likes. Sound...sound alright?”  
  
You nod again, not trusting your voice. She stands in front of you awkwardly for a moment, shifting from foot-to-foot before saying a quick goodbye and heading to her car.  
  
You stand and watch her walk away, dread pooling in your gut. When she disappears from your sight, you sigh and go back to work.  
  
–  
  
Your supervisor doesn't hesitate for a second in giving you the day off. She looks relieved when you ask, and she insists you take the rest of the weekend off, too. She says she's worried about you and that you need to take care of yourself.  
  
You excuse yourself before she can say anymore.  
  
When you get home—no, back to Roxy's apartment, it's not your _home_ —you fish your cell phone out of the drawer in your bedside table. You haven't really been using it much. You didn't think you needed it for anything other than work, what with all your friends being angry with you. You open it and find yourself faced with seven missed calls from Rose, three from Jake—which had to be expensive because it was overseas—and six texts from Jade.  
  
The first few texts are hesitant greetings, the last angry reactions to being ignored. More guilt twists your gut, and you clear the notifications before burrowing into your blankets and falling asleep.  
  
Your alarm clock goes off at four in the morning, and you're almost thankful for it. Shutting it off, rolling over and going right back to sleep is heavenly. You wake again around eleven, and you can hear Roxy and Jane in the kitchen. You drag yourself out of bed, not feeling exhausted for the first time in a long time. You put on the spare glasses that Dave had sent back and venture out into the living room.  
  
“John!”  
  
Roxy's sitting on the couch, tugging on a pair of flats while Jane waits by the door.  
  
“Day off?” She asks.  
  
You nod, rubbing a bit of sleep from your eyes. Jane frowns and crosses her arms.  
  
“You're so thin,” She comments, “Have you been eating?”  
  
“Yeah,” You say as you shuffle into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, thankful that they've already made a pot, “Being a doctor's stressful work, y'know. Burns more calories than a work out. I'm actually grabbing lunch with a friend later.”  
  
“Well, good,” Roxy blows you a kiss as she turns Jane toward the door, “We've gotta be off. Drop by the bar if you need anything.”  
  
You wave as Roxy pushes Jane—who's still frowning at you—out the door. You nurse your coffee on the couch, nestled into the corner and just enjoying being able to relax. Your lunch with Rose is still looming over you, though, and your stomach flutters with nerves at the thought. You shouldn't be nervous about seeing Rose of all people, but you know she's going to want to talk about That Night and you really, really don't want to. There's a reason you've been working very hard to avoid even thinking about it.  
  
After finishing your coffee, you take a quick shower and get dressed before heading out, locking the door behind you. The walk to the restaurant is a long one, so the sooner you start, the better. As you walk, you decide to text Jade, so if she's going to be mad, she'll at least know that you weren't ignoring her intentionally.  
  
JOHN: hey jade. sorry about missing your texts i've been busy lately and i've mostly just been leaving my phone at roxy's place. i wasn't trying to ignore you.  
  
You tuck your phone back into your pocket, but almost immediately after you do, it's buzzing with an incoming text.  
  
JADE: thats alright i understand and i actually wanted to apologize for hitting you...  
JOHN: nah, don't feel bad, i deserved it.  
JADE: i never said that you didnt just...youre my friend as much as dave is and even though what you did was REALLY shitty i shouldn't have hit you  
JOHN: apology accepted, then. :)  
JADE: damn right it is!!! anyway shouldnt you be at work???  
JOHN: nah, rose convinced me to take the day off and go get lunch with her.  
JADE: she did??? ohhhhhhhhh  
JOHN: what? what is it?  
JADE: oh nothing but i have to go my lunch breaks over talk to you later!!!  
JOHN: uh...bye.  
  
That was certainly not comforting. You stuff your phone into your pocket and continue toward the restaurant just a little slower. Rose has been known for her scheming, and you're not sure what she's planning until you're halfway through the door of the restaurant and you spy her at a table across the room.  
  
And she's not alone.  
  
Your heart pounds and you can feel the panic seeping into your lungs as your breaths come quick and wheezy. You turn to leave as fast as you can. You can call her on the way home, say you can't make it, that you're sick, but it's too late. She stands and calls your name.  
  
You turn slowly back around and she waves you over. You walk on stiff legs. It's a bit comforting that Dave's glowering at Rose and hissing something at her under his breath. He probably hadn't been informed of your presence, either.  
  
“You two need to talk,” Rose says firmly, slipping out of her seat and gesturing for you to take it, “You've both been miserable for weeks, and I'm honestly sick of dealing with,” She looks at Dave, _“Your_ moodiness and,” she turns to you, _“You_ walking around the hospital like a damned zombie.”  
  
She rounds the table and stands at one of the empty ends between you and Dave, “Aradia's got her lunch break now, so I'm going to go eat with her. I'm not saying that you two have to be friends, but you are going to talk.”  
  
With that, she turns and walks away, leaving you alone with Dave whose sour expression hasn't lessened.  
  
Other than the way he's hunching in on himself and the dark circles peeking out from beneath the lenses of his shades, he doesn't look too worse for wear. If anything, he looks more toned, like he's been working out. That wouldn't surprise you; growing up brawling with his older brother instead of arguing like normal kids meant that if his turntables weren't cutting it, he'd go exercise when he was stressed.  
  
Your chest aches at the thought that _you_ stressed him out enough that he couldn't relieve it with just his music.  
  
You sit quietly, awkwardly, with your hands folded on your lap, wanting to be anywhere but here.  
  
“So,” Dave says, his voice lined with a biting edge, “Rose got you your stuff?”  
  
You nod. There's another moment of silence.  
  
“You've lost weight.”  
  
You flinch a little, “Stress burns calories,” you rasp.  
  
“I'm aware.”  
  
More silence. You want to apologize, but you can't think of any way that it would be enough. A sorry can't make up for what you did. You'll probably just end up pissing him off even more. It seems to be something you excel at.  
  
His finger drum against the table, “Where ya stayin'?”  
  
“With some friends of Jake's,” You mumble, “Roxy and Jane. They own the bar a few blocks from our apartment.”  
  
“Oh. You mean where you picked up your other friend.”  
  
You flinch again. You wish he'd just take you out back and kick the shit out of you. Anything would be better than this.  
  
The tense silence stretches on for a few minutes. Dave's just staring at you—you cant' actually see it through the shades, but you've known him long enough to tell—and the longer he does the further you attempt to sink into your chair.  
  
Finally, he leans forward, elbows hitting the table, and he drags his fingers through his hair. It's a nervous habit, and you used to catch his hand and hold it and rub circles into his palm with your thumb to calm him down. You can't do that now.  
  
“Just,” he starts. His voice breaks a little, so he inhales sharply before continuing,  
  
“Just tell me why. I mean, this shit came out of nowhere. What the fuck did I do? Was it because I was always gettin' mad about you gettin' called in? Was the sex not good enough? Did we not switch it up enough? Were you bored? _What?”_  
  
You wish he had his glasses off. But even with them on, you can see the insecurity lined in his face, insecurity that _you_ put there.  
  
You wish you had an answer.  
  
“I...I don't know,” you say shakily, “I don't know.”  
  
His lips draw tight, “What the fuck do you _mean_ you don't know? It had to be somethin'. People don't just go cheatin' on their boyfriends for no reason.”  
  
“I don't know. Jesus, it's not like I went to the bar planning on picking up some chick. I wasn't conspiring to cheat, Dave.”  
  
Dave laughs, “So, what? It just fuckin' happened? You just happened to get drunk and fuck some chick? You stumbled into a bar and accidentally cheated and threw away eight years for no fuckin' reason?”  
  
“Apparently!” Your voice is pitching upwards, “Fuck, Dave, I don't understand it anymore than you do! Christ, I think I've beaten myself up enough; I don't need you to remind me!”  
  
“Oh fuck no,” Dave stands, hands slamming down on the table, “You don't get to be fuckin' mad at me, asshole. I'm not the one who cheated.”  
  
You stand, too, “But you're fucking acting like you're the only one suffering. You and your fucking victim complex-”  
  
Your phone rings loudly in your pocket, cutting off your argument and immediately drawing Dave's attention.  
You shouldn't answer it. You should let it go to voicemail and smooth things out here. You shouldn't piss him off more.  
  
But, fuck, you're so mad.  
  
You pull your phone out and answer. You don't miss the fury that tightens Dave's shoulders.  
  
At least he's not slouching anymore.  
  
“Yeah?” You say, doing your best not to snap.  
  
“John? Oh, good, this is the right number. It's Roxy. Look, I know that you're having lunch with your friend and I'm so sorry if I'm interrupting, but I really need you to come down to the bar. It's an emergency.”  
  
Your brow furrows, “Why? What's going on?”  
  
“I, uh, I can't really explain it over the phone. Please, can you just get here as fast as you can?”  
  
“Yeah, of course,” You look at Dave, “No problem at all.”  
  
“New girlfriend?” Dave spits as you end the call and shove your phone in your pocket.  
  
“No. Roxy needs help at the bar,” You say as you make your way toward the door, “You know, the bar she owns with her _wife.”_  
  
Dave snorts, “Sorry. Wasn't aware that committed relationships still meant something to you.”  
  
You storm out, fury coiling through your limbs and boiling in your blood. You shouldn't be mad, you know. He had every right to say everything that he said. And it's not like what he said wasn't the truth. But maybe that's why you're so pissed. Because he affirmed everything you already know. Everything you've known since That Night.  
  
You're nearly in tears by the time you reach the bar, but you scrub them away before you walk inside.  
  
“John,” Jane's in front of you the second you're through the doors, “You need to come in the back. It's...it's Nat.”  
  
You think you stop breathing. Jane's flustered and preoccupied and she probably doesn't notice your discomfort, just ushers you toward the door that leads to the back room. You think you'd rather go fight with Dave than go in there.  
  
Jane waves you in and swings the door shut behind you.  
  
Nat's sitting on a chair from one of the tables, her arms curled around her stomach and her eyes wide. You don't have time to ask what this is about—not that you could with the way your throat has swollen—before she's blurting,  
  
“I'm pregnant.”  
  
You feel like she punched you in the stomach. If it was hard to breathe before, it's impossible, now. She scrubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand and waits. It takes a few minutes before you can breathe properly, and you choke out,  
  
“Pregnant.”  
  
She scowls impatiently, “Yes, pregnant, moron. I'm getting an abortion.”  
  
You swallow, “O-okay,” there's a pause, “Uh...what do you want me to say here? Do you want my...opinion?”  
  
She scoffs and stands, flapping her hand dismissively, “I'm not asking your permission, asshole. I want you to go with me and pay for it.”  
  
“Pay? Why?”  
  
She rolls her eyes, “Because it's your damned fault! You're the one who knocked me up, so you're going to be the one to fix it. I've got an appointment set up for three o' clock. My car's parked out back. Let's go.”  
  
She marches by and grabs your arm, hauling you out of the backroom.  
  
Roxy calls something you don't hear.  
  
Your heart's pounding and your head's dizzy with panic, but she doesn't pay any heed to the way you stumble over yourself, just drags you along to her Honda.  
  
You're still trying to wrap your head around the fact that she's _pregnant_ and the fact that you fucking _impregnated her._ The panic's rising in your chest, thick and viscous, closing around your lungs and clogging your throat. Nat either doesn't notice or doesn't care. She pulls out of the alleyway, and the jostling of the car does little to help your condition.  
  
You focus on breathing as much as you can, repeating to yourself the words Jane had spoken when you'd had a panic attack in her apartment.  
  
 _The panic can't hurt you; you'll be fine. The panic can't hurt you; you'll be fine. The panic can't hurt you; you'll be fine._  
  
Your head clears and your breathing improves marginally, but your hands are still trembling and your thoughts are racing. Nat's completely silent, her jaw clenched and her lips pressed into a thin line. You sit and quiver in the passenger seat, watching the buildings pass.  
  
She finally parks and you walk her into the Planned Parenthood building. You sit at her side while she fills out paperwork, you fork over four-hundred dollars for the operation, you smile when the woman behind the counter tells you that you're a good man for being here with her.  
  
You don't notice that she's shaking as hard as you are until you're waiting for her to be called back. She hasn't looked at you once since you arrived. She's called back and you wait.  
  
It takes twenty minutes.  
  
That's all.  
  
Just twenty minutes of sitting in the waiting room, twiddling your thumbs and avoiding the gazes of the other people waiting, too. She's a little wobbly when she gets back, and the nurse informs you that she was given a mild sedative and that she probably shouldn't drive.  
  
With panic simmering at the back of your mind, you don't really think that you should be, either, but you accept the keys and let her lean on you despite the way your muscles protest painfully to every movement.  
  
You drive her home.  
  
You wish you didn't know where her apartment was.  
  
She asks if you want to come up.  
  
You refuse.  
  
She thanks you.  
  
You leave without another word.  
  
–  
  
The reality doesn't set in until you're back in the apartment, curled in your bed.  
  
She'd been pregnant. With your child. Your potential offspring had been growing in her womb and now it was gone. You hadn't even tried to convince her to wait, to think about it.  
  
Okay, you weren't giving her much credit. She probably had thought about it, and you don't really blame her for not wanting to have a baby. It was her choice. You just wonder if you could've had an effect on it. If you could've said something, told her that you'd take care of the child, anything to make her reconsider.  
  
Your stomach roils and you think you might vomit.  
  
It was all your fault. You'd drunkenly brought the embryo into existence, and you hadn't even attempted to have any sort of input into the continuation of that existence.  
  
You leap out of bed and sprint to the bathroom, vomiting into the toilet bowl until you're dry heaving and your mouth tastes of bile.  
  
You're scum.  
  
–  
  
It would be easier to say that you became suicidal after that.  
  
It would be easier to say that you stood on rooftops and stared down, contemplating jumping, if you held razors to your wrist and pressed down hard enough to draw blood pearls of blood from the thin flesh.  
  
But it's not like that, not really. You don't want to kill yourself, but you've gone from just going to the motions to simply not caring. Any caution you had before flies out the window. You don't look before crossing the streets, you cut through alleys on your way home in the dark, you pay little attention to stairs and bumps in the road, you don't take precautions when you're cutting up food for meals.  
  
You don't really want to kill yourself, but you wouldn't really mind if you died.  
  
Jade notices when the two of you are walking to the theater and she has to jerk you back by the neck of your tee-shirt when you nearly step into the path of a truck. She's wide-eyed and panicked, demanding to know what you were thinking, and you just kind of shrug.  
  
She must have told Rose, because you can feel her watching you when you're at the hospital. Everywhere you turn you spy her white-blonde hair and violet eyes examining you like you're one of her psychiatric patients. She sits you down one day at lunch and asks what's wrong.  
  
You say nothing, and it's not really a lie.  
  
It's not really a problem, you think. So you're a little reckless; there are plenty of people crazier than you. There are people who seek out dangerous, possibly fatal situations, who put themselves into peril willingly. You? You just happen upon such situations and don't bother doing anything about it. Rose insists that such apathy is dangerous, but you dismiss her.  
  
Jade starts showing up more. When she's not working, she walks you from the hospital and back home. She catches you when you stumble, but you wish she wouldn't because you know she's noticed by now how you react to her touch.  
  
When she does have work, she texts you almost constantly. She tells you about her day, about all the new animals that came into the shelter. She texts you even when you don't reply. You think she might be trying to remind you that she cares, that she would care if you were gone. You're not really sure how to tell her that it's not really about that.  
  
It does become a problem, though, when there's a guy causing trouble in Roxy's bar.  
  
She doesn't have security because she's never needed it, but the guy's drunk and angry. It's a dangerous mix and you can see Roxy starting to panic. You intervene when he grabs Jane by the arm and calls her a slut. You tell him to back off and he swings, his knuckles connecting with your jaw and nearly sending you toppling over. You don't hit back, you just keep his attention off of Roxy and Jane while they call the police. The guy's sloppy and predictable and you know enough physics to know that you need to roll with the punch to lessen the damage.  
  
You're not expecting the knife, though. You don't even notice it until it's buried into your side.  
  
Roxy's screaming and Jane's shouting and some of the other patrons are subduing the guy.  
  
You're a little dizzy. You press your hand instinctively over the wound, feel the heat of the blood wetting the palm of your hand. It doesn't really hurt that much, and you're not particularly scared. You're actually a lot calmer than you've been in a long time.  
  
It doesn't stop Jane from crouching next to you and brushing hair from your forehead and telling you that it's going to be alright and it's going to be fine. Then Roxy's there with a rag and she's pushing your hand aside and pressing it against the wound to soak up the blood. They're talking to you, but you're not really paying attention.  
  
You hear sirens in the distance and think that maybe it would be nice if they didn't make it in time to save you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sure how i feel about this chapter but here it is


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for self mutilation

The wound wasn't too bad.  
  
It wasn't long, stretching only about an inch, but what it lacked in width, it made up for in depth. After an ambulance ride you don't really remember, filled with the muffled voices of paramedics and Jane's shrill, desperate shouts, you spent about an hour in surgery while they checked for damage to any vital organs and stitched the wound, and when you woke, you were plugged into an IV that was pumping blood into your arm. It was too late by then for you to have any visitors outside of your family—your dad's across the country and Jake's not even in the country, so visitors were a lost cause. After your transfusion finished, the nurse, a woman you work with, informed you that they'd be keeping you for a few days to monitor the wound, and you were exhausted enough that you fell right back asleep.  
  
You wake with Jade at your bedside.  
  
“John!” She says, nearly falling out of the chair with how quickly she lurches forward, “You're awake. Oh, thank god. The nurse said that you were just resting, but I was still worried because- because you got stabbed, what the hell? How does that even happen? Jesus, John, everyone's so worried-”  
  
“Jade,” You cut in, and her mouth snaps shut almost comically, “I'm fine. I got a few stitches and they're keeping me here for a couple of days, but it's really no big deal.”  
  
She splutters for a moment, “No-no big deal? John, you were _stabbed_...you-you could've died! Doesn't that _bother_ you?”  
  
You shrug. You don't want to lie to her, but your gut still twists with guilt when she just stares at you with her eyes brightening as they flood with tears. Her cheeks are turning red and splotchy, and her mouth opens and closes, gaping like a fish. You can tell that she wants to say something, but all she manages is a high, gasping noise before she turns and bolts.  
  
You sink down into the bed, tucking your left hand beneath the blankets. You prod along your stomach a little, searching for the wound. You're on enough pain medication that you can't feel its throbbing. When you find it, though, and your fingers brush along it over the hospital gown, pain radiates, bright and sharp for a moment before the meds muffle its sting.  
  
You find yourself shuddering. You swallow thickly and lay your head back; your fingers tingle and your head is light enough that you feel like you're floating.  
  
Your fingers halt immediately.  
  
That's...new.  
  
You prod at it again and bite your lip as the same lighter-than-air feeling floods your veins. You do it again.  
  
Again.  
  
It's nothing, you tell yourself, you're just counting the stitches.  
  
“Doctor Egbert, what are you doing?”  
  
A nurse walks in, painted lips twisted into a frown, “Are you irritating your stitches?”  
  
You'd deny it, but you know she's just going to check anyway. She tugs your blankets back and pulls your hospital gown away from the wound. The bandaged is darkening with blood, and she sighs when she sees it.  
  
“Jesus,” She sighs, “You, of all people, should know better. If you have to get restitched, it's your fault.”  
  
She collects some supplies from the cupboards and puts them on the rolling table at your bedside. She peels away the bandage and cleans the wound. The burn of the antiseptic and her careful examination don't bring about the same feeling. You wince and your fingers curl into fists to ease the discomfort.  
  
“You're lucky,” She says as she fixes a new banadage over the wound, “The stitches are still in place. Now leave it alone.”  
  
“Yes ma'am.”  
  
She rolls her eyes, swatting you lightly on the head before leaving the room.  
  
The itch doesn't go with her. It stays in your fingers, and you curl them into fists to keep from disturbing the wound any further. But you want to, and that scares you.  
  
A nurse brings you lunch at noon after you've spent the morning brooding alone. You find you're not particularly hungry, but you thank her anyway. She doesn't leave until you open the tray and take a bite of the rather dry mac'n'cheese waiting for you beneath it.  
  
The moment she's gone, you drop the fork again. You're not particularly hungry, nor do you think you will be in the near future.  
  
This is going to be expensive. You're going to be swimming in hospital bills for the rest of the damned year.  
  
Another reason it would've been easier for you if you'd just bled out in the bar.  
  
You're too busy wallowing to notice Rose walking in.  
  
“John,” She says quietly, and you jump a few inches off the bed, your knee clipping the tray and nearly toppling it off the table.  
  
When you compose yourself again, you say, “Oh hey, Rose.”  
  
“We need to talk.”  
  
You swallow. Crossing your arms defensively across your stomach, you sit up a little straighter and watch her drag a chair to your bedside. She sits silently for a while, then looks at your tray of food.  
  
“You should eat,” She says.  
  
You shake your head, “Not hungry.”  
  
She sighs and leans forward, folding her arms on the bed a few inches away from your blanketed legs. Her brow is pinched and she's frowning deeply the way she does when she's thinking too hard about something.  
  
“Fine,” she sighs softly, “But we're still going to talk. What's going on with you, John?”  
  
“I got stabbed. Hadn't you noticed?”  
  
“Yes, I'm aware of that,” She snaps, “But Jade has just confirmed what I've been suspecting for a while.”  
  
Your chest seizes, “And what's that?”  
  
“You're suicidal.”  
  
Her words are plain and harsh like a punch to the gut.  
  
“I'm not-”  
  
“John just because you're not actively seeking your own death doesn't mean you don't want to die. You are allowing yourself to fall into potentially deadly situations and acting like it's not a problem because you're just...just setting up your death not causing it. And it's _not_ healthy and it's _not_ okay and I am certainly not letting it continue.”  
  
A breath puffs past your lips, a weird sort of anger swelling in your chest.  
  
“That's not your decision,” You snap, “You don't get to choose how I feel. You can't magically fix me when the way I'm acting is suddenly inconvenient for you.”  
  
Rose winces, “John, that's not what this is about. We're worried about you.”  
  
“Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe I'm not worth worrying about?”  
  
Rose's head snaps up so quickly that you actually think her neck might break. She stares at you with huge eyes, searching your face and looking _mortified._  
  
“Why would you think that?” She asks, “John, what on earth gave you that idea?”  
  
You swallow thickly and you can feel the tears burning your eyes, “I'm a cheat, Rose. That's how you all see me, and that's how everyone will _always_ see me. Fuck, that's how _I_ see me. I ruined my relationship with Dave and I hurt him. I promised I would never and-and I _did_. And then- and then the...the _kid_ -”  
  
You choke, your teeth clamping down harshly on your lip so you can shut the fuck up. Rose doesn't need to know that. No one needs to know that. Everyone already knows you're a wretch, that you're lower than scum; no one needs to know that you're a spineless murderer, too.  
  
But Rose is putting it together. You can see it in her eyes, in the way her face shifts. The realization dawns in her eyes, and her lips part,  
  
“John-”  
  
“Go,” You say hoarsely, “Please- please go.”  
  
She hesitates.  
  
 _“Go.”_  
  
Her legs shake as she stands. She stares at you a little longer, her eyes wet and her lips curled in and pressed tight. Then she turns and walks out of the room.  
  
You listen to the click of her heels on the tile until the sound blends into the noise of the hospital halls.  
  
You want to break down and cry and sob, but you know that a spike in your heartrate will just bring a nurse in to check on you, and that's the last thing you need.  
Your friends seeing just how pathetic you are is bad enough; you don't need your co-workers finding out, too.  
  
Instead, you bury your face in your hands and breathe.  
  
In through your nose, out through your mouth.  
  
 _God,_ but you're pathetic. Look at you here, curled up in a hospital bed because you were too cowardly to make any effort to take your own life. You waited for someone else to do it, to take the responsibility. You let someone else take the choice away from you so you could pretend that you weren't so much of a disgrace as to resort to suicide.  
  
The very least you could've done was left your friends out of it. You could've gotten your own place away from Jane and Roxy. You could've shoved Rose and Jade out of your life—they probably wouldn't have put up too much of a fight. But you didn't. You were weak; you wanted them to stay. You wanted to pretend that you deserved them.  
  
You don't think you've ever hated yourself as much as you do right now.  
  
–  
  
Jane and Roxy stop by for a few minutes at the tail end of visiting hours. Roxy apologizes, says that they would've stopped by sooner but neither felt comfortable leaving the other alone at the bar after last night. You tell them you understand, but Roxy still looks like she's about to break down and Jane's lower lip never really stops quivering.  
  
The nurse ushers them out ten minutes after visiting hours are actually supposed to end, and they go reluctantly, tossing looks at you over their shoulders. You try to smile reassuringly, but you don't really think you succeed.  
  
You burrow into the blankets and will yourself to sleep when they're gone. The rest would do you good, you know.  
  
Sleep doesn't come, though. Why would it? You're not tired in the slightest. You work here, for god's sake—you're way too used to sleepless nights here and sleeping would feel like lazing off on the job.  
  
You spend hours laying alone in bed, rolling and shifting, lost in your thoughts and trying to quiet your mind. Nothing works. Nothing helps. Your stomach ties itself in knots, a lump swells in your throat. You're unsettled and you don't know why.  
  
Then your fingers find the wound again. They press down and your breath hitches at the sting.  
  
 _Stop,_ you think, _stop this is wrong._  
  
But you don't stop. Your fingers jab and press and drag until you feel like you're flying.  
  
“Doctor Egbert, your step-brother is here to visit,” A nurse says, poking her head into the room. Startled, you press way too hard and swear at the surge of pain. Her brow pinches and her eyes fall to your blanketed abdomen.  
  
“I hope you're not bothering your wound again. Penny mentioned you had been.”  
  
“No,” You say, voice a little choked from the pain, “No, I'm not. Promise. Uh...my step-brother you said?”  
  
“Ah! Yes, I just wanted to make sure you were awake before sending him in. I'll be right back!”  
  
She disappears and you wonder who, exactly, is coming to visit you because you don't _have_ a step brother. It might be Jake, but that's really unlikely because it would be nearly impossible for him to get here so soon. Besides, Jake's your cousin. He wouldn't have to lie about his relation to you in order to get in after visiting hours.  
  
It's a few moments before some of the footsteps in the hall break off toward your room. A voice wafts in before you can see who your visitor is.  
  
“So, you knocked her up, huh?”  
  
And, yeah, you don't need to see him to know it's Dave. You'd know that voice anywhere.  
  
“I guess you talked to Rose, then,” You mutter. He finally steps into the room looking a hell of a lot worse than he did when you saw him at the restaurant. His hair's disheveled and the bags under his eyes are visible even with his shades on.  
  
You note that he's wearing one of your old sweatshirts. He's taller than you and his arms are longer, so he looks a little ridiculous—it's also relatively warm outside so he has no actual reason to be wearing it.  
  
He notices you staring and seems to realize what he's wearing. He plays it off, though, ignores it like it's no big deal.  
  
“Yeah. She called,” He says, “Kinda big news. Y'know, not only did my ex boyfriend cheat but he's also gonna be a dad.”  
  
You bite back scathing retorts and bitter words, instead managing a quiet, “What do you want, Dave?”  
  
“What I've wanted since all this shit went down,” He snaps, _“Answers,_ John. You don't just get to say you don't know and call it good.”  
  
“I don't know what you want me to say,” Your voice is quiet, subdued. You don't want to fight again.  
  
Dave drags fingers through his hair furiously and shuts the door, “I want you to fucking explain, John. I'm the one who got cheated on, here. I'm the wounded party. But you're-you're having some kind of fucking meltdown and I want to know why. Is it that internalized homophobia shit again? Because I thought we fucking dealt with that when we were teenagers.”  
  
“No, it's not that. Jesus, Dave, I wouldn't have stuck around as long as I did if that was still a fucking issue.”  
  
“Do you want kids? Is that the problem?” Dave's pacing now, “Did you fucking figure out that I'm a dude and can't have 'em? Did you get so fucking desperate that you had to go knock some chick up instead of talking to me about it?”  
  
“For god's sake, Dave, I'm not having a fucking _kid!”_ Your voice pitches upwards and his pacing stops abruptly, “She got a fucking abortion, alright? Whatever kid I might've had has been dead for _weeks.”_  
  
He stares, searching your face like he thinks you're lying. The silence is still and heavy around you. He swallows audibly and you avert your gaze. You really don't need this.  
  
There's a soft thumping sound and when you look back at him, he's collapsed onto the couch by the window. He's stooped over, face hidden and fingers curled into his hair.  
  
“I don't fucking get it, John.”  
  
His voice is quieter, now. There's something behind it, something that makes a lump swell in your throat. You wish you could reach out to him. You wish you still had that right.  
  
“I don't fucking _get it,”_ He draws his hands from his hair and slams them down onto his knees, “You _cheated_ on me. I should be pissed. I _want_ to be pissed. I should hate you, but I'm just fucking worried because you're acting like a goddamn nutjob.”  
  
You shrink a little in on yourself, “Don't worry about me. I'm not- you should just move on. Just remember me as that asshole ex and find someone better.”  
  
“That's what I'm fucking _talking_ about,” He stands, arms flailing blindly like he's not sure what to do with them, “You're acting like some angsting teenager with no self esteem! What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”  
  
“I don't _know_ what's wrong with me!” You shout back, “I don't understand any of this more than you do! I don't know what's happening and I don't know why I feel like this! Don't you get that? If I knew what was wrong I wouldn't be sitting here in a hospital bed with a hole in my stomach!”  
  
He's gone back to pacing. His strides are uneven and it's sporadic and you can practically see him coming unhinged.  
  
“Then talk to someone!” He says, “Talk to-to Rose or to Jade, or, fuck, talk to _me!_ Because you're a cheating prick but you were still my best friend. And something's obviously going on because you're taking this situation way fucking worse than I am. So would you just fucking tell me why you're going off your rocker-”  
  
“You can't just _do this!”_  
  
The volume of your voice surprises you, and you know that you're going to be drawing the nurse's attention soon because the two of you are definitely causing a disturbance and your heart rate is spiking. But you don't care right now because you're panicking and you're so fucking mad and your fingers are digging more harshly into your wound and the pain is only spurring you on.  
  
“You can't just show up out of the fucking blue and demand that I talk to you! God, you're just like Rose! You don't get to ignore me for-for _months_ and then suddenly decide that you give a shit again. And you can't corner me here and give me no fucking _choice_ in the matter. You can't force me to talk to you; you can't guilt me into it to ease your fucking conscience. I cheated on you, okay? I know that. I fucking _know_ that. I ruined the best thing in my life and I'm paying for it every fucking day so would you just move on and stop rubbing it in my face? Just leave me alone and stop pretending that you actually care because I know more than anyone that I'm not fucking _worth it-”_  
  
You don't realize that you're rapidly dissolving into hysterics until there are a pair of nurses at either side of your bed, their hands on your shoulders, calling your name and insisting that _you need to calm down._ Your breathing is harsh and shallow and your vision is darkening and you've definitely done a number on your stitches. Too focused on remembering how to function, you don't see Dave leave before the nurses are injecting something into your IV and the darkness swallows you whole.  
  
–  
  
Your stitches have to be redone and you have to stay under nearly constant surveillance at the hospital for a few more days before you're released. Rose drops by a few times but she never stays long, too afraid of setting you off again. She mentions that she'll be picking you up from the hospital when you're discharged, and you don't really think anything of that even if it would make more sense for Roxy or Jane to do so since you're staying with them.  
  
Doctor Lials is hesitant to discharge you, but you manage to convince him that you'll be fine, that you don't live alone and Roxy and Jane won't hesitate a second to bring you right back if they think something's wrong. Rose walks you out of the hospital and takes you to her car and you don't pay much attention to where she's actually taking you or the fact that she doesn't know where Roxy and Jane live until you're parking at Dave's apartment complex.  
  
Your hands are trembling.  
  
“Rose-”  
  
“John, you need to talk to somebody,” She says, cutting off any protests, “I'm perfectly aware that you're not going to talk to me. You and Dave are the injured parties here, and while he's been a bit of an ass about it, he does deserve to know. You want him to move on and you're going to have to give him some closure for him to do that. We're not- we won't force you. You can get out of the car and walk to Roxy's apartment or you can go up and talk. But I...I think you should try.”  
  
“I have tried,” You say quietly.  
  
“John, shouting at each other in restaurants and hospital rooms doesn't count.”  
  
You swallow thickly and try to quell the shaking in your hands. You don't want to do this. You really, really don't. But you need to.  
  
You need it and Dave needs it.  
  
“Fine,” You say after a moment of silence, “Fine, I'll-I'll try.”  
  
Rose's shoulders sag in relief. She offers you a small smile.  
  
“Thank you, John. Now, I'll be a few blocks down with Jade. Call me if you need me to pick you up, alright?”  
  
You nod mutely and climb out of the car. You watch her pull away and take a deep, trembling breath. You can do this. Your trek up to the apartment is slow and by the time you knock on the door you're shaking so hard that you might as well be vibrating.  
  
It's strange to have to knock at a place you used to call home, but you don't think about that now.  
  
Dave opens the door almost immediately, and he's shaking almost as badly as you are. His movements are all careful and deliberate, and you're grateful for that. You feel so fragile right now that one wrong move could shatter you.  
  
He's moved the living room around. The couch is pressed to the far wall so it faces the door and everything else has been pushed off to the side. There's no obstructions between the couch and the door, giving you a perfectly clear exit if you need one.  
  
“Uh,” He says, “So. Do you want anything? Water or-or something?”  
  
You shake your head, not trusting your voice quite yet. He nods too quickly and splutters something incoherent before gesturing toward the couch. He's letting you make all the first moves—you must've really freaked him out with your stunt at the hospital.  
  
You sit on the side of the couch closest to the door and he takes his place at the far end, putting as much space between you as he can. Everything about this screams Rose, and you don't doubt that she'd had him rehearsing everything before you actually came.  
  
God bless Rose Lalonde.  
  
The two of you sit in silence for a while. It's not a comfortable silence, and you don't doubt he's feeling just as out of place as you are. It's almost ten minutes before you can find it within yourself to speak.  
  
“So...” You say, and your voice startles him, “What do you want to...um...talk about?”  
  
He swallows and twists his hands anxiously, “Well, something's going on with you. I mean, that freak out in the hospital wasn't just 'cause you were feelin' guilty about what went down between us. I mean, maybe that's part of it, I don't actually know but- um, just start maybe at the night that...um.”  
  
You raise a hand to silence him. You know which night he's talking about; it's really not that hard to figure out. You wet your lips, close your eyes, inhale and start,  
  
“Well, we had that fight after I was called in, you know. And after our fights, you usually like to be alone, so I was going to give you space. I thought I was being, y'know, considerate. So after my shift, I went to the bar. I-I was only going to have one drink, I swear. I just went in to have a beer and then I was going to walk it off and come home and wait till you were ready to talk. I was finishing my beer when Nat showed up.”  
  
You're shaking again, and your voice quavers but you continue, “She convinced me to stay and have a drink with her. And I figured you wouldn't be ready to talk for a couple of hours, so I didn't think it would hurt anything. We were just-we were just _talking._ She was interesting and it was like-like talking to Jade or something. I didn't think I was hurting anything; I wasn't flirting or even considering doing anything other than talking, I _swear-”_  
  
“John, don't try to convince me of anything,” Dave's voice is soft and a little choked, “Look, okay, I believe you. Whatever you say, I believe you. So just...just tell it like it happened.”  
  
You nod, and you chew on your lower lip a little while you think because this is when everything starts getting fuzzy, “I was pretty drunk by the end of it and she-she was mostly sober and Roxy offered to call me a cab and I should've taken it, but Nat said she could get me home...and it's not like I had a reason not to trust her. But then I couldn't remember how to get home and it's so stupid because we're not that far from the bar...so she said that I could crash at her place. I should've said no because we were fighting and I never stay out after a fight but...but I was drunk and tired and I didn't think it would be that bad. I thought I could just-just apologize to you the next morning.  
  
“So I went with her. And I was on her couch and she was helping me out of my jeans so I could sleep and I was thinking about-about you and, god, I got hard and it was so _stupid._ I was such a fucking _idiot._ She said she wanted to help, and I-I said no. I did, I tried—I told her that I had a boyfriend, but I was still hard and I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_ I didn't mean to-”  
  
Dave stands suddenly—in the blink of an eye he's on his feet, fast enough to startle you. He's shaking harder, his glasses gone from his face and a hand clamped over his mouth.  
  
“Fuck, John,” He says, and his voice is choked and furious and he looks sick, _“Fuck, John.”_  
  
You flinch back, but he bolts out of the room. You hear a door slam and it shakes you down to your core. You hear him vomiting and your heart nearly stops.  
  
You made him sick.  
  
 _Fuck,_ this was a bad idea.  
  
 _You're so disgusting you made him sick. Why would you think that telling him would make anything better?_  
  
You're fleeing before you can think. You need distance, air, air that's not coming.  
  
You don't call Rose. How could you? Why would you subject her to your presence, too, after what you did to Dave?  
  
You're not sure where you're going, but you're going there fast. Your feet move of their own accord, slapping against the pavement as your lungs seize and spasm in your chest.  
  
 _Shit shit shit shit shit._  
  
Nat was right. She was right all along. Everything was your fault, and Dave had affirmed that. You have no one to blame but yourself. The realization finally hits home because, coming from Dave, it feels real. You'd done this—all of this. You'd torn your friends apart, torn yourself apart. You'd made them worry; you'd made Jade _cry._  
  
Your back hits the wall in some distant alley somewhere deeper in the city. How long have you been walking? You feel flushed and feverish and your breaths are little more than rasping wisps of air rattling in your lungs.  
  
What use were you?  
  
You slide to the ground with bile rising in your throat.  
  
You don't want this. You don't want to do this anymore—you don't want to hurt your friends. You don't want to drag them down with you.  
  
You wrench your shirt off and rip away the bandage on your abdomen. Your fingers tear at the stitches because you don't need them—you don't want them. You don't want them to hold you together anymore. You don't want to be held together.  
  
You want to fall apart.  
  
You tear and tear and ignore the pain and the blood and the way your fingers slip and slide against your wet skin. You're crying, sobbing, and you might be screaming, too, because your throat feels hoarse and cracked. It hurts, it _hurts_ and you want it to stop.  
  
You want to be _gone gone gone._  
  
You don't stop until you're head is spinning and your hands and stomach are painted red, dark, dark red and the once cleanly stitched wound is nothing more than mangled flesh and torn stitching.  
  
You throw your head back and close your eyes and will yourself to die already.  
  
–  
  
 _“Whoa. What the fuck?”_  
  
–  
  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 16:22 –-  
TG: rose  
TG: rose fuck  
TG: rose would you fucking answer me fucking christ  
TT: Pesterchum, Dave?  
TT: I haven't used this in years.  
TG: not fucking important right now  
TG: i fucked up rose  
TG: i fucked up big time  
TT: What happened? Is everything alright?  
TG: no everythings not all fucking right  
TG: does it sound like everything's alright  
TT: Dave, what's wrong?  
TG: just fucking get over here  
TG: like  
TG: fucking yesterday  
TT: Dave, what's WRONG?  
TG: just fucking get over here alright  
TG: fuck  
TT: I'll be there in two minutes.  
\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]at 16:27 –-  
  
The room's empty. It's empty—he's _gone._ Your mouth tastes of bile and you're shaking and everything's happening all at once and _he's gone._  
  
Shit.  
  
 _Shit._  
  
 _SHIT._  
  
Your name is Dave Strider, and you fucked up.


	5. Chapter 5

Rose can't get there fast enough.  
  
You know she's getting there as fast as she can and she's probably forgone her car and is running here with Jade, but she's _not going fast enough._  
  
To say that you're freaking out would be a wild understatement. You've practically torn the apartment apart with your pacing and your furious outbursts. The ugly lamp that Bro had gifted to you as a gag is lying in shattered pieces on the carpet where you'd thrown it when you'd returned to an empty living room.  
  
God, you're so stupid. You'd left him alone, and he probably thinks you're pissed because it's not like you didn't act like it. And, fuck, you _are_ pissed but not at him—never at him. You're pissed at yourself and that...that _Nat_ or whatever the fuck her name was. The bile's rising in your throat again at the thought of it, at the memory of John panicked and desperate, apologizing like any of this was his fucking fault.  
  
No, no this is your fault.  
  
You're the one who'd gotten pissed at him that night, the one who'd made him feel like he couldn't come home because you'd be sulking in your room like a teenager. You're the reason he was at that bar, and you're the one who'd kicked him out without even letting him explain. You should've seen it. Maybe not then, when you were blinded with rage and betrayal, but when you'd seen him in the restaurant. He was so thin and brittle and small, and Rose had told you about the way he froze up when she touched him.  
  
Fuck, you know John better than anyone and _you should've seen it._  
  
You drop onto the couch, hands curled in your hair, pulling hard. You'd done this to him because you were a stupid, jealous idiot who couldn't see past your wounded pride to realize that John was hurting.  
  
God, John was hurting a _lot._  
  
Before you can do actual harm to yourself and tear the hair from your scalp, there's a frantic knocking at the door. You stand and cross the room in the blink of an eye, wrenching the door open and moving to the side because you're sure Rose isn't going to wait to be invited in.  
  
You're right, and she marches right inside with Jade on her heels.  
  
“What's wrong?” She asks, eyes meeting yours through your shades and taking in your disheveled appearance. Her eyes sweep around the room, lingering only momentarily on the shattered remains of the lamp before they return to your face, “Where's John? What happened?”  
  
“John's gone,” You say, “He left. I don't know where he is.”  
  
Rose's lips purse, “Dave, what _happened?”_  
  
“I can't-I can't explain everything. Not now, anyway, because right now, we really need to find John. But I-I fucked up, Rose. Big time. I am a huge, monumental fuck up. They'll write stories and sing sons about how fucking badly I fucked up because-”  
  
 _“Dave!”_  
  
Jade's voice startles you out of your rambling, and she's _right there_ with her hands tight on your shoulders and her eyes blazing behind her round glasses.  
  
 _“What happened?”_  
  
You inhale, steadying yourself because you're freaking out pretty fucking badly. When you're calm enough that you don't feel like vomiting up your every thought the second you open your mouth, you manage to continue.  
  
“John, he...he was...shit, fuck, he was-” you can't bring yourself to say it, can't let that word leave your mouth because the very thought of it makes you want to fling yourself off a goddamn building...or maybe fling Nat off a goddamn building, “He didn't cheat. I mean, not...fuck. Okay, he slept with her but it wasn't. He didn't. _Fuck.”_  
  
God, the one time you can't articulate your thoughts and you really fucking need to. Thankfully, Rose, bless her fucking heart and you don't even care how southern cliché that is, is really good at piecing things together. You know the moment she understands, the moment everything falls into place. It's a subtle change, but her eyes darken and her jaw tightens and her shoulders set and you remember why you had spent the better part of your teenage years terrified of pissing her off.  
  
“It wasn't consensual,” Rose says quietly and Jade's turns to face her so quickly that her hair whips your neck, “John was...”  
  
She doesn't say it, either. Her voice catches and falters.  
  
It's Jade who finally says it aloud. Jade who was always good at forcing you to face the truth even when you didn't want to.  
  
“She raped him. She...that...god, that _bitch.”_  
  
Jade's voice pitches upwards and her lips curl away from her teeth and she releases your shoulders fast, like you'd burned her. Her hands ball into tight fists at her sides, her knuckles white and her arms quivering.  
  
“I should've seen it,” Rose says, fury faltering in favor of guilt, “Every sign was there. The depression, his aversion to touch, the rapid weight loss, his apathetic approach to dangerous situations...”  
  
Rose trails off and Jade makes a frustrated noise, “We can blame ourselves later, okay? Dave, why isn't John _here?”_  
  
You swallow, “He told me. And I was so...so...I-I got sick. I couldn't- fuck and he probably thinks I'm mad at him.”  
  
“Okay,” Jade says, dragging her fingers through her hair, “Okay, okay. Rose, you're the psychiatrist here. Where would he go?”  
  
At the mention of her occupation, Rose snaps immediately into her working mindset. The guilt and anger bleed away, leaving only cool, objective calculation. This is the Rose you need right now, the one you all depend on when things go to shit, the Rose who can keep her cool and sort things out calmly.  
  
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she speaks, “He's likely panicked—frenzied. During these past months, he's probably been building and supporting the mindset that this is his fault, and after putting everything out in the open and receiving what he perceived to be a rejection, it's probable that he won't want to be around anyone at all. While he probably won't be completely conscious of his direction, he will subconsciously avoid going places where he thinks he might encounter someone he knows.”  
  
You grind your teeth, “So basically, everywhere we'd usually look for him is probably where he won't be?”  
  
“That's correct.”  
  
Great. Fantastic. John could be anywhere in this fuckhuge city except _everywhere you'd think he would be._  
  
“We need to start looking,” Rose says, and she grips at your arm just above your elbow, grounding you, “You and I can start the search. Jade?”  
  
Jade makes a sound of acknowledgment. You can still see the anger written into every line of her body, but her eyes are softer, and she's worrying her lower lip. You'd hug her if you didn't think it would wreck you.  
  
“There's a bar a few blocks down,” Rose continues, “The owners, Roxy and Jane, are the women that John is staying with, and they should be informed. You don't need to tell them why, not yet, but they should be aware of the situation.”  
  
Jade nods and departs without another word.  
  
“Ready?” Rose asks.  
  
You can't bring yourself to say yes. You want to find him, of course you do, but you're not sure if you're ready to face this, to face the damage you'd done.  
  
You manage a nod and follow Rose out the door.  
  
God, you just hope he's alright.  
  
–  
  
And you're not alright. Not really.  
  
Okay, so you're alive, but that's not really saying much with how the past couple of months of your life have been.  
  
And actually, you're not really sure if you are alive. You're laying down and you think you hear voices, and whatever you're laying on isn't quite soft enough to constitute heaven and not nearly painful enough for hell.  
  
Purgatory, you think, you must be in purgatory.  
  
But the voices become just a little clearer and they don't really sound like they're lost spirits trapped between worlds. They sound more like an angry couple in the middle of a spat. The fog over your mind fades just a little and you can actually make out what they're saying and, yeah, you're pretty sure you're not dead.  
  
Damn.  
  
“...but why did you bring him _home?”_  
  
“What else was I supposed to do with him? Leave him with Equius?”  
  
“Oh, I don't know, uh, take him to the hospital?”  
  
“Okay, the guy was delirious and totally incoherent and the only thing that I could actually understand was that he definitely did not want to go to a hospital. Who am I to deny him?”  
  
“Someone with an ounce of common sense!”  
  
“Sheesh, you're such a girl sometimes.”  
  
 _“You brought a homeless guy into our apartment while I was at work.”_  
  
“Look at his clothes, Toreadork, I don't think he's homeless.”  
  
“Whatever. He's a stranger that you found bleeding in an alleyway and you didn't take him to a hospital because he didn't want to go. Instead, you took him to your far-less-than-certified friend and then brought him home.”  
  
“Hey, don't diss Equius! Dude's a freak but he's helped both off us out.”  
  
“That's not the point. What if he's a serial killer?”  
  
“He was ripping his own guts out, not mine.”  
  
“Strangely enough, that's not comforting.”  
  
“Look, I'm betting you that this guy's as harmless as a fly. And you know I never lose bets.”  
  
“Yeah, uh, still not comforted.”  
  
“Oh, look he's waking up.”  
  
Shit. They noticed.  
  
You inhale shakily and pry one eye open. The room is blessedly dark and there's a girl leaning over you, dark blond hair falling over one shoulder and a single blue eye peering at you from behind a pair of peculiar glasses—one lens is considerably darker than the other, dark enough that you can't see the eye behind it.  
  
She grins widely, flashing her teeth, and you're reminded of a shark with how predatory it is.  
  
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” She says.  
  
You blink blearily in response, opening both your eyes and letting the room come into focus. It's sparse, empty except for the couch you're laying on and a tv set across the room. It doesn't look particularly lived in.  
  
You stare at her, mouth opening to say something, ask where you are, who she is, what you're doing here, but you find that you can't form the words. You try, you're talking, you _know_ you are, but you're not actually saying anything. Air passes your lips with a soft, breathy little noise, but that's it.  
  
You try again, and you're met with the same result.  
  
Alright, so you can't talk. Great.  
  
“Hello?” The girl waves a a hand in front of your face, “You there?”  
  
You just gape at her for a moment before lifting an arm that's way too heavy and prodding at your neck, hoping she'll get the message.  
  
She leans closer with pursed lips and you can smell her perfume and she's _way too close_ and you can feel your breaths shortening and the panic stirring at the back of your mind. Before you can have another panic attack—and you've already had plenty, thanks—she stands and puts her hands on her hips.  
  
“Can't talk?” She asks, and you shake your head, “See, Tavros? The guy can't even talk. He's harmless.”  
  
A man a little shorter than her shuffles in with his hands shoved in his pockets and a scowl on his face, “With the number he did on his stomach, I wouldn't call him harmless.”  
  
She scoffs, “Fine, so he's not harmless to himself, but I'm pretty sure that we've got more potential to hurt him at this point than he does to hurt us.”  
  
She turns and waggles her brows at you, “All alone in a strange house and you can't even scream.”  
  
That's not helping settle the panic at all. It rears its head and you can feel the trembling start in your fingers, so you curl them into your palms to try to quiet them. You don't need to have a panic attack in a stranger's house when you're injured and incapacitated and mute.  
  
Tavros looks at you and his scowl softens a little, “Geeze, Vriska, did you have to make us sound like murderers? Look, buddy, we're not going to hurt you. Well, uh, I'm not for sure, and Vriska's all bark and no bite.”  
  
She slugs him in the arm, “I saved his life, thanks. I deserve some credit.”  
  
You disagree, personally. It would have been better if she hadn't found you, if you had bled out in that alley. But then, you'd been near death twice in the past few days and you'd pulled through both times. Maybe this was some cosmic sign that you weren't meant to die yet.  
  
Of course, it could also mean that you just needed to try harder.  
  
“I'm your hero,” The girl, Vriska, continues, this time addressing you, “I found you dying in an alley and took you to my friend Equius because you were really serious about not going to a hospital. He patched you up and gave you some pain meds and then I brought you home so you could sleep it off. Oh! Here.”  
  
She fishes a baggie out of her pocket and tosses it onto your chest—you're still laying down, you realize—and keeps talking, “Vicodin. Eq said you might need them. But you're supposed to keep the stitches in for a few more days then cut 'em all out. I can do that for you, if you're staying. If not, you'll have to do 'em yourself.”  
  
You sit up and ignore the sharp pain that shoots from your abdomen. You tuck the bag into your pocket, not really caring that it's a federal offense for her to even have these let alone give them to you. You look up at her and mime writing, hoping one of them will get the idea.  
  
Tavros does.  
  
“Oh, you want paper. Uh, Vriska, do we have any paper?”  
  
Vriska rolls her eyes and disappears for a minute before returning with a scrap of paper and a pen. She hands them to you and you press the paper to your leg and scribble out a message.  
  
 _I need to go home._  
  
You don't actually _want_ to face Jane and Roxy, not after how poorly your talk with Dave had gone, but if the digital clock on the television is anything to go by, it's been at least a day since you fled from Dave's apartment. They're probably worried sick, and that's the last thing you want.  
  
“No one's stopping you,” Vriska says with a dismissive shrug, “Door's open.”  
  
You nod and toss your legs off the couch to stand. You find, of course, that your legs aren't quite in agreement with that course of action. You're collapsing back on the couch after putting just a little weight on them.  
  
Vriska doesn't miss that, her lips pursing and her eyebrows furrowing.  
  
“Well, I mean, what's the rush, right Tavros?” Vriska's eyes flicker over to Tavros who's just kind of watching you though he doesn't look as put off as he did before, “You were practically ripping your guts out when I found you and the stuff Equius had you on to keep you sedated was pretty fucking strong, so you probably wouldn't make it home and then all my hard work would be put to waste.”  
  
She babbles on a little longer and you realize that she's actually _worried_ about you.  
  
You don't really want to make her worry.  
  
 _Okay,_ you write, _I'll stay._  
  
She visibly sags with relief but she's quick to cover it up, practically leaping off the couch and informing you that she's going to make something to eat. It's four in the afternoon and probably too early for her to have to make anything substantial, but you don't mention it.  
  
Tavros sighs heavily and flops down on the other end of the couch.  
  
You scribble something down and offer it to him.  
  
 _Sorry for intruding._  
  
He flaps his hand, “Nah, you're not really intruding. Vriska just tends to act impulsively. She's got this fixation with luck, and she thinks nothing bad will ever happen to her.”  
  
You nod, and the pair of you lapse into silence until Tavros turns the tv on to alleviate some of the awkward tension that's smothering you.  
  
Vriska returns a few minutes later with plates of cold pizza, one of which she offers you. You take it to be polite and you nibble at the corner of one of the two slices because you're not really hungry, and even if you were, cold pizza has always been Dave's choice of food, not yours. Vriska talks enough for the three of you, telling you about how she met with so much bad luck before that she's physically incapable of being anything but lucky now. She lifts her glasses and shows you her left eye, which is just as blue as the other except this one has seven splotchy, unevenly sized pupils instead of one. She was born like that, she explains, and she's actually blind in that eye. She thinks it looks cool, but it makes most people uncomfortable so she keeps it covered up.  
  
She also tells you about how she cheated some guy out of some cash and he got pissed and sent someone to hit her with a car. Her arm was torn up pretty bad and she tugs her sleeve up to show you the mottled scar tissue. The stitching had probably been amateur, and your stomach plummets a little when she tells you that the guy who'd stitched her up was also the one who stitched you up.  
  
By the time Vriska and Tavros finish their pizza, you're exhausted. Vriska takes your uneaten food and shoves it off on Tavros with a sweet smile before darting off to get you bedding. She returns with a pillow and some blankets and you scribble down a thank you.  
  
She snorts, “It's not like I did anything. 'Fact, if I had to guess, I'd say you resent me for saving you.”  
  
You nearly flinch but catch yourself quick enough that it's just a little tremor.  
  
“Thought so,” She jabs pointedly at your forehead with her index finger, “If I wake up in the morning and you're not here, I'm gonna call the police, you here?”  
  
You nod and watch her leave before situating a little bed on the couch, burrowing in and falling asleep.  
  
–  
  
You do end up leaving before she wakes up.  
  
Knowing that it would be intrusive and violating to actually go into her bedroom and wake her, you write her a note thanking her along with your cell phone number on it so that she can get a hold of you, and slip quietly out the front door. You're in a part of town that's vaguely familiar, and you don't really mind wandering a bit before actually making it home. The longer you can put off having to face your friends the better.  
  
The morning is cool, and a breeze wafts through your hair and sends chills along your skin. A car passes on the street and you idly ponder jumping in front of it, but you decide against it. All you can see when you consider it are the faces of your friends who, despite everything you've done, care. You're not stupid enough to believe they don't, and after all the shit you'd already put them through, how could you hurt them even more?  
  
You're not sure how long you wander before you finally get your bearings and make your way back to Roxy and Jane's apartment. You climb the stairs and fish your keys out of your blood-stained jeans before unlocking the door and slipping inside. Honestly, the last thing you'd expected was to find Roxy, Jane, Rose, Jade, and Dave sprawled on the floor and couch fast asleep. You freeze where you are, hoping you didn't wake any of them, but none of them so much as stir. You swallow and wet your lips, carefully maneuvering through their bodies to make it to the hallway and your bedroom. Once inside, you sit on the bed and wince when it squeaks before grabbing your phone out of the drawer.  
  
You're met with a slew of notifications, texts and missed calls from when you'd disappeared. Guilt pools in your stomach. You must've put them through hell.  
  
You really should go back out there and wake them, tell them you're alright, you're not dead, but your exhaustion is eating away at your mind again, so instead, you wriggle out of your bloody clothes in order to change.  
  
There's a bandage secured over the wound on your stomach, and you're thankful for that. You'd seen Vriska's arm and how poorly it had been stitched, and all you can really hope is that, that Equius guy's skills have improved since he'd patched Vriska up.  
  
You pull on an old shirt of yours—you'd grab the one you'd taken from Dave, but you don't really feel like you deserve that anymore—and a pair of fresh boxers before climbing into your bed. You swallow one of the Vicodin dry because your side is throbbing and settle into the blankets—your bed's a lot more comfortable than Vriska's couch, and that, along with the effects of the medicine, lets you drift off in no time at all.  
  
–  
  
When you wake again, you're not alone.  
  
You don't know how long you slept and you don't have a clock to find out, but judging by how rested you feel, the lack of grogginess, and the sharp pain in your abdomen, you'd hazard a guess that it's been a while.  
  
You blink your eyes open and scrub at them with the heel of your hand. The bed is shifted with the weight of another person, so you turn a little to see who it is.  
  
You're extremely surprised when a pair of red eyes meet yours.  
  
Dave's seated next to you in the same clothes he'd been in when you went to his place. He's got a book in hand and he looks tired and relieved and you're not sure what to do with that.  
  
You opt for staring silently.  
  
“You're awake,” He croaks, “Oh, thank god. Fuck, John, you scared the shit out of me.”  
  
He drops the book and he reaches out like he wants to touch you but he stops himself before you even get the chance to flinch away. You see the way his jaw clenches and his brow pinches, how halting his movements seems to physically pain him.  
  
Shit, you're really fucking confused. Why was he even here? He'd made his feelings perfectly clear.  
  
You blink at him owlishly, and you wish you could talk just so you could get some answers.  
  
“Are you alright?” He asks as he drops his hand back to his side, “I mean, are you hurt or anything?”  
  
You shake your head. It's not really a lie. He knows about your stab wound, so it's not like that would be anything new, and you're not hurt otherwise.  
  
He nods quickly, ringing his hands, “John, look I- about last time...it wasn't...I wasn't mad. Not at you, at least. I mean, I'm pissed as hell at myself and-and her but not you. This...none of this shit was your fault, okay? None of it. I know that I haven't exactly been...reinforcing that and that's shitty of me, that was really fucking shitty of me. And shit, I'm so fucking sorry, god I fucked up so much-”  
  
You grab him by the wrist, effectively cutting him off. You're shaking and there are tears making your vision muddy and you're chewing hard enough on your lower lip that you're sure it's going to bruise. You lift a finger to your lips to tell him to be quiet because you're not sure if you can deal with this.  
  
He's not making any sense and you're so fucking confused, and all you really know is that he's blaming himself for some reason and that's what confuses you most of all.  
  
You turn his palm so it's facing up and use your index finger to draw deliberate lines into the soft flesh there. You have to trace the same letter a few times before he realizes what you're doing. In reality, you could just pull out your phone and text him or type it out in a reminder and show him, but the warmth of his hand in yours doesn't make you want to recoil. The contact makes your stomach roll a little, and there's a lump in your throat and your hands are trembling, but you want this, you want to hold his hand in yours and you need this intimacy and you'll be damned if you let your body deprive you of it.  
  
The process is long, and the hand that's curled around his wrist is sweating by the time you finish your message. It's all too much and you draw your hands away completely, scooting back on the bed to put space between you two, but you think he understood.  
  
 _It is not your fault._  
  
“Don't say that,” he whispers. His voice is fragile and it breaks your heart, “I treated you like shit when you needed me.”  
  
You shake your head firmly, and something crosses his face before he's leaning forward.  
  
“John...are...is something wrong with your voice?”  
  
You shrug.  
  
“Oh. Shit. Fuck, uh, Rose!”  
  
There's hardly any delay between his calling for her and Rose opening the door. She looks as bad as Dave does, hair disheveled, shoulders slouched.  
  
“Yes?” she asks, worry laced quite obviously in her tone.  
  
“John can't talk.”  
  
Rose's eyebrows creep jump toward her hairline, and she steps into the room, leaving the door ajar. She sits near your feet and studies you with a small frown,  
  
“Is it physical?” She asks after a moment.  
  
You shake your head. If it was just a sore throat from the screaming you'd done, you wouldn't be completely incapable of making noise, and unless Equius or Vriska had done something to you, whatever's inhibiting your speech has nothing to do with your body.  
  
She nods, “I see. Sometimes, after traumatic experiences, your body will put up a mental block as a way of coping. Some people experience paralysis or blindness; some lose the ability to speak. It's usually temporary, though, so don't dwell on it too much. Would you like me to get you a pen and paper so you can communicate easier?”  
  
You nod, but when she stands, she's not looking at you.  
  
You follow her eyes to Dave.  
  
All the color has drained from his face, and he looks a little like he's going to be sick again. His eyes are squeezed shut and you can see his jaw quivering from the force he's using to keep it clamped shut.  
  
Rose's fingers brush along your shoulder, not hard enough or long enough to cause discomfort, and she murmurs, “I'll have the pen and paper in the living room. Come out when you're ready.”  
  
When the door clicks shut, you look back at Dave.  
  
“You weren't mute before,” He says softly, “You could still talk. You didn't stop until-until after-”  
  
He lifts his eyes and he looks so raw and open and vulnerable and you wish you could hug him, you wish the thought of it didn't make your skin crawl.  
  
“Was it me?” He asks finally. His voice is wrecked, devastated, and you shake your head so fast that the room spins a little when you stop.  
  
You lift the hem of your shirt and gesture at the the bandage. His eyes flicker from it to your face a few times before realization dawns in his eyes.  
  
“John, you didn't-” He stops himself, something in your face answering his unspoken question, “Can-can I see?”  
  
You jerk your shirt right back down, and shake your head. He doesn't need to see the extent of your sickness, your depravity. There's a second when you think he might force the issue, but he concedes and asks if you want to go see the others. You agree, and you can't get out of that room fast enough.  
  
In the living room, Rose and Jade are seated on the couch with plates of eggs and bacon balanced on their laps. Roxy is in the kitchen chatting with Jane, and both of them look up when you enter.  
  
You figure that Rose informed everyone of your predicament because no one comments when you shuffle over to her and take the pen and pad of paper that she offers. You settle on the against the wall across from the kitchen, your legs crossed beneath you, and Dave joins you when he comes in a moment later. He still looks pale.  
  
Jane approaches with a plate of food and two forks that she hands to Dave.  
  
“I wasn't sure if you'd be hungry,” She explains, “I can get you a plate if you want.”  
  
You shake your head and muster up a smile, writing, _No thanks,_ on the pad of paper.  
  
“Mmkay. But eat something alright? You're too thin,” She turns to leave but pauses, “You're...you're alright?”  
  
You nod and hope your smile is reassuring.  
  
It ends up being the best morning you've had in a long time. No one mentions your disappearance, and everyone talks comfortably. Roxy and Jane get along swimmingly with your friends and you thank whatever higher-power-that-may-be for that. Dave reads out your contributions and you two end up sitting close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, and he sneaks you small smiles and indiscreet glances. If it weren't for the fact that you'd likely dissolve into panic if he actually _touched_ you, you'd feel like the two of you were in high school again.  
  
Around noon, Rose and Jade excuse themselves. Jade has to go to work and Rose has a date. Jade, with a wobbly lower lip, informs you that if you ever worry her like that again she'll push you out a window and you assure her that it won't happen again by your volition. Rose goes with a quiet smile and little else.  
  
Jane and Roxy insist that they can handle the dishes themselves, so you and Dave retreat back to your bedroom again. You're glad for his presence. You know he's going to want to talk because you two are certainly not seeing the same situation—how does he even think that any of this is his fault?—but you're not sure if you're ready, not when the sting of his rejection was so fresh, even if it wasn't really a rejection at all.  
  
Your phone is buzzing on the bedside table and you pick it up before flopping onto the bed, Dave climbing onto the other side and reaching for his book again. You slide it open to see who's texting you.  
  
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: John, I 8elieve I specifically told you NOT to 8e gone when I woke up. That doesn't mean leave a note. That means 8E THERE WHEN I WAKE UP!!!!!!!!  
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: You had 8etter not 8e dead, you hear me? You are not putting my hard work to waste.  
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: ARGH YOU ASSHOLE ANSWER MY GODDAMN TEXTS.  
JOHN: sorry, vriska. i really needed to get home. my friends were worried sick. i see you found my note, though.  
VRISKA: THERE YOU ARE!!!!!!!! Why did you even leave your num8er if you weren't going to answer your fucking phone????????  
JOHN: sorry! i fell asleep and then i had to talk to my friends and explain why i was gone for two days!  
VRISKA: Augh, whatever. You had Tavros worried sick. He's such a 8a8y. You really shouldn't mess with him like that.  
JOHN: uh huh i'm sure it was tavros who was worried.  
VRISKA: Why would I even 8e worried about you? The only think I have to worry a8out is whether you're gonna pay me back for my kindness.  
JOHN: oh! i mean, yeah, i could. i've got cash since i don't have to pay for food or anything. how much do you want?  
VRISKA: I don't want your money, stupid!!!!!!!! Sheeeeeeeesh.  
JOHN: then what do you want?  
VRISKA: Nothing!!!!!!!! It was a joke!!!!!!!!  
JOHN: oh. okay then.  
VRISKA: God you're even worse at texting than Tavros is. Look, just don't drop off the face of the map alright? Tavros will worry.  
JOHN: alright. i'll do my best not to make tavros worry.  
VRISKA: Good! ::::) Anyway, I've got to go. There are some losers just 8egging for me to swindle their life savings out of them.  
JOHN: okay...be careful!  
VRISKA: :::;)  
  
You sigh and slide your phone closed again, dropping it back onto the table and rolling onto your side. Dave's got his book out again, and he glances at your phone when you move.  
  
“'Sup?” he asks.  
  
 _Nothing. The girl I stayed with the last couple nights was checking up on me._  
  
“Oh. Good.”  
  
 _Yeah. I'm tired. Mind if I sleep again?_  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
You put your writing stuff on the table by your phone and wiggle back under the blankets again. It's almost too warm.  
  
You nod off to the sound of Dave's breathing and the whisper of his fingers against the paper of the books, and you wonder how you ever fell asleep without it.


	6. Chapter 6

Dave's still there when you wake. He's asleep on top of the blankets, his left hand resting a little ways away from you like he was reaching for you but stopped halfway. You scoot your hand towards his beneath the blankets, stopping when you can just barely feel the tips of his fingers through the thick fabric.  
  
This is okay. This is good. This doesn't make you feel sick to your stomach.  
  
It's a little pathetic, you think, that it takes the barrier of a comforter for you to touch your boyfriend--no, ex, _ex_ boyfriend--but you push that thought out of your mind and soak in his presence while you still can. You're waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for him to tell you why he suddenly decided to care again. Maybe because you're a total headcase and he's worried about your mental stability, or lack thereof. Maybe Rose convinced him that it would be good for you. Maybe she's bribing him.  
  
You suck your lower lip between your teeth and bite down on it, trying to avoid coming up with scenarios like that. Dave's a good guy beneath all the layers of facades he puts up to protect himself; he's just helping you out because it's a good thing to do.  
  
It's not until he wakes that you realize that he's not wearing his shades. He blinks at you, pupils dilated so that you can only see a thin ring of red around the black. You stare because it might be the last time you get to see them, and you feel a painful tightening in your chest when he doesn't go for his shades.  
  
It's a good kind of pain.  
  
You'd missed his eyes these last few months, the vibrant red streaked with lines dark as blood. They'd freaked you out the first time you saw them; you'll admit it. They were just so...unnatural. But it had taken a lot for him to show you, and you'd seen the tremor in his hands and the way he looked anywhere but your face, the way his muscles tensed, a conditioned reaction from years of abuse from classmates. They were weird, yeah, but they were a part of Dave and Dave had never really been average.  
  
That he was showing them to you now, unashamed and without even the slightest trepidation in his gaze, even after how you'd hurt him made tears well in your own eyes. This isn't like earlier when you'd woken, when everything had been a rush and he's been more interested in the fact that you were alive than the fact that he wasn't wearing his shades. This is Dave knowing exactly what he's doing, exactly what he's saying to you.  
  
He reaches out to catch the tear in the corner of your eye with his thumb and the moment shatters. You make an aborted noise and flinch away and he recoils like you'd burned him.  
  
After a moment of silence, he mumbles, "Sorry," and grabs his shades.  
  
He situates them on his face and swings his legs off the bed, "I'm gonna go see if Jane and Roxy are up."  
  
You want to apologize, to tell him that it's not him, that you're just fucked up, but your voice still refuses to work. You make a pathetic sort of gasping noise that he doesn't hear, and he's out the door before you can grab the pencil and paper to write him a message.  
  
When he's gone, you sit up and drag your fingers through your hair. You hope your voice comes back soon because not being able to make any sound is frustrating.  
  
You crawl out of bed, wincing at the throbbing in your abdomen. You grind your teeth and muscle through the pain, grabbing your glasses, notepad and pen before venturing out into the living room.  
  
Roxy, Jane, and Rose are seated on the couch, nursing mugs of coffee and Dave's rooting through the fridge.  
  
"Good morning, John," Rose says.  
  
Your brow furrows and you scribble something down on the notepad.  
  
 _Morning?_  
  
"You slept through the night, hon," Jane says, "You were pretty exhausted."  
  
Oh. Wow. You hadn't realized you were that tired.  
  
 _What're you doing here, Rose?_ you write, moving to perch next to her on the couch.  
  
"I came to check up on you, obviously. And also..." She trails off, chewing lightly on her lower lip. There's a long stretch of silence before she speaks again,  
  
"John, we...we need to talk. About that night and what happened afterward."  
  
You swallow thickly, your jaw quivering a little, and Rose continues quickly, stumbling over her words in her haste,  
  
"We don't have to do it today. Or even tomorrow. Whenever you're ready, just know that...that we need to."  
  
You nod, inhaling shakily, and you can feel everyone's eyes on you. They're watching your ever move, probably looking for any signs that you're going to panic and bolt again.  
  
Selfish anger burns in your gut; you're not some frightened animal, you're their friend.  
  
You write something out stiffly and the pen trembles in your fingers.  
  
 _Let's do it today. Can I shower?_  
  
Rose's shoulders sag visibly, "Yes, of course. I'm enjoying talking with Roxy and Jane. Dave, will you be staying."  
  
Dave's been standing in the kitchen, watching the exchange with the refrigerator door open. He looks to you, like he's asking permission. You freeze, mouth parted. You're not sure if you want him here, if you want him to have to relive the biggest fuck up of your life. Does he even want to? If you say you want him to stay, will he even if he'd rather not? You close your mouth again and shrug.  
  
"Yeah," He says, "I'll stay. We doin' this today, then?"  
  
Rose nods and you take your cue, walking into the kitchen and rounding Dave to get to the drawers. You pull out a box of plastic wrap and carry it with you to the bathroom, ignoring Dave's raised eyebrow.  
  
You start the shower to give it time to heat up and strip out of your clothes. You hesitantly peel the bandage away from your wound, and you kind of don't want to see what's beneath.  
  
It's mottled and twisted, the stitching's uneven and sloppy, and the skin around it is bruised, but it's not infected. You're going to have a nasty scar, but that's better than having to deal with an infection, especially one in a wound so deep. The top of the mirror begins to cloud with steam and you reach for the plastic wrap.  
  
You wind it carefully around your midsection, pressing it tight to your skin. It's not comfortable or professional, and you'd never condone one of your patients doing it, but you need to keep the stitches as dry as possible and this is the best way you can manage without medical supplies.  
  
You get in the shower and let the scalding water spray against your legs before inhaling sharply and stepping beneath the spray. It burns in the best way, lighting lines of fire along your face and over your shoulders and down your torso. You wait until your skin feels feverish and raw before actually cleaning yourself, shampooing your hair and dragging a soapy washcloth over your arms and chest and legs. Bending over to wash your legs is tough with your stomach bound, but you don't mind the way your wound throbs and that should scare you more than it does.  
  
When you're sufficiently clean, you reach for the knob controlling the water and twist it further to the left. The heat of the water spikes and you shudder.  
  
You're scared.  
  
You don't want to talk about That Night. Not again. Not after seeing Dave's reaction. Rose isn't as close to the situation, sure, but she's bright and analytical and she cares more about Dave than anyone. You're not sure if you could take her scorn.  
  
You wait until your shaking subsides before you shut the water off and step out of the shower. The bathroom is foggy and drying yourself off it s a challenge with all the moisture in the air. You manage, though, and once you're as dry as you're gong to get, you peel away the plastic wrap. The skin is creased and slick with sweat and you dab at it with your towel to dry it off as best you can.  
  
You don't bother with your hair, instead just knotting the towel around your waist and slipping out of the bathroom and down the hall to your bedroom. Once inside, you pull on a pair of boxers then root through your bags to find your first aid kit. You make a new bandage and seal it over your injury then tug a tee-shirt on. After shimmying into a pair of sweats, you stand in front of your closet and hesitate in front of your sweatshirts.  
  
You swallow and finally decide on wearing Dave's. It's a worn old thing, and the dark red fabric has greyed over the years, but it's comfortable and it still smells like Dave. He's not that much taller than you, but he's got longer limbs, so the sleeves are just a little too long. You feel small and childish, and the feeling's not unwelcome.  
  
When you're tucked into your clothes and you feel warm and cushioned, you join the others in the living room.  
  
Rose smiles as you enter, but it's weak and doesn't reach her eyes.  
  
"Hey, John," She says, "Do you need anything before we start? Water, coffee, breakfast, maybe? I know you haven't eaten."  
  
You shake your head and she releases a shaky breath before looking at Roxy and Jane,  
  
"I don't mean to kick you out of your home- and we could always go someplace else, but I think John might be most comfortable here-"  
  
Roxy shakes her head and cuts Rose off, "The apartment's just as much John's as it is mine and Janey's; he pays his rent. There's some prep we need to do down at the bar, anyway."  
  
Jane nods then lets go of Roxy's hand and comes to stand in front of you. Her voice drops low and quiet,  
  
"John," She murmurs, "If this talk doesn't go like you want, please, please don't run off again. This is your home, not theirs, and if anyone should leave it'll be them. Okay?"  
  
You nod in agreement and she smiles weakly at you before wishing you well and going back to take Roxy's hand and lead her out.  
  
Rose scoots over to the side of the couch nearest the front door, gesturing for you to sit at the opposite end. Dave leans on the wall by the television, arms crossed, and if he notices your sweatshirt he doesn't mention it.  
  
You know what they're doing. They're trapping--no, it's more like...herding?--you. If you decide to bolt, the only place you have to go is your bedroom.  
  
Rose notices the way your eyes are flickering around, "John, we're not trying to make you feel trapped. I promise. But you can't go running off into the streets again. If-if you feel like you can't continue the conversation, you're free to leave at any time. You can go into your bedroom and Dave and I will leave you be. Okay?"  
  
You nod, and when you do, Dave moves across the room to sit on the table in front of you. He picks up the paper and pen you'd left on the table and hand them to you.  
  
You try to steady your hand as you write,  
  
 _Where do we start?_  
  
Rose inhales through her nose and out through her mouth,  
  
"First of all, I-" her voice catches and her eyes flicker over to Dave, "- _we_ want to apologize."  
  
Your brow furrows,  
  
 _Why? You didn't do anything._  
  
"Exactly," Dave says, "We didn't do shit. None of us did except for Roxy and Jane, and they shouldn't have had to do anything. We're your...friends and we kicked you to the curb when you needed us."  
  
 _I cheated, Dave. I deserved it and I knew it. You don't have to apologize._  
  
You see Dave's jaw tightening, "Dammit, John, you _didn't_ -"  
  
"Dave."  
  
Dave's mouth snaps closed but the tension in his jaw doesn't leave. Rose sighs and looks back at you,  
  
"John. You didn't cheat."  
  
 _I slept with Nat._  
  
Rose shakes her head, "What Nat did to you-"  
  
You stop her with a shaking hand, hitting the couch hard enough to startle her. You write your next words deliberately.  
  
 _What **we** did_  
  
"No, John," Rose's voice trembles and you see her lip quivering, "What Nat did to you."  
  
You know what she's implying. You know it because you had thought it, too. But that had just been an excuse, the morning after guilt talking. You shake your head and try to control your breathing.  
  
"I know this is hard," Rose says, "But none of what happened was your fault, John. None of it. You can't be held responsible for Nat's actions."  
  
Your hands are shaking so hard that it's difficult to write.  
  
 _I was drunk_  
  
"There were plenty of other drunk patrons in that bar that night, John. That's no excuse."  
  
 _I went home with her._  
  
"You didn't know where your own home was. You could've ended up wandering around in the dark and getting both of you seriously hurt."  
  
 _I was hard_  
  
Rose's breath hitches and Dave makes a strangled noise. You write it again. Again.  
  
"John-" Rose tries, but you just underline it with harsh strokes of the pen that carve into the paper.  
  
It's Dave who speaks next,  
  
"That doesn't mean shit."  
  
Rose lays her hand on the couch a few inches from your thigh, "Arousal isn't consent, John."  
  
Your teeth are clenched so hard that there's pain radiating from your jaw, and tears are blurring your vision. You drop the pen and paper on the floor and push your glasses up to your forehead so you can dig the heels of your hands into your eyes. It doesn't stop the tears, though, or the sobs that wrack your entire body.  
  
You stand and flee the room without warning, moving one hand down to cover your mouth so you can find your way to your bedroom. You slam the door and fumble with the lock. Rose said they'd leave you be, but you know how Dave can get.  
  
You burrow into the blankets, cuccooning yourself in them and pulling the collar of Dave's sweatshirt up to bury your face in it. Rose has to be wrong. They both have to be. This was your fault--they'd been so clear about that before. What changed? How could they just turn this around on you and act like you were stupid for believing differently.  
  
You're angry and confused and there's no way you're going to be able to sleep, so you roll over and grope for your cell phone. You've got two texts from Jade, and though you're tempted to ignore them, Jade's not like Rose and Dave who are notorious for twisting the truth in order to pull punches or protect themselves. Jade's brutally honest, so maybe she could shed some light on the subject.  
  
JADE: hey john rose said that she was going to try to talk to you today just wondering how it went!!  
JADE: oh okay rose just texted me you alright?  
JOHN: not, uh, not really. i'm so fucking confused, jade.  
JADE: about what???  
JOHN: (1/2) just, i guess, with this whole fucking situation, it was my fault. i fucked everything up and hurt dave and pissed off you and rose, and i understood that, okay? i knew that it was my fault and i was dealing with it. maybe i wasn't dealing with it heathily but i was DEALING. and now suddenly rose and dave are  
JOHN: (2/2) here telling me that it's not my fault and acting like they didn't spend the last few months ignoring me and i just don't fucking get it. they just walk in here like the last few months never happened and expect me to believe what they're saying at face value. and i'm just so mad and confused and i feel so fucking pathetic.  
JADE: (1/2) john...look we all made mistakes and yeah you took the brunt of it but this isn't a simple situation...there was a lot of misconceptions and confusion and we didn't know what was really going on and im sorry about that john we all are but you have to understand that we DIDN'T understand...we werent there for  
JADE: (2/2) you before but we'll be here now if you'll let us...we all know why youre angry and i know why youre angry and you have every right to be but you need to know that were here to help you  
JOHN: help me with what? god you don't really think nat...that she...you know...  
JADE: i do john i think thats exactly what she did  
JOHN: god, fuck. i need to go, alright, jade?  
JADE: youre not going to do anything dangerous are you???  
JOHN: no, i swear. i just...i need to talk to someone  
JADE: alright...but if i find out that you did something stupid im gonna kick your ass so hard!!!  
JOHN: bye jade  
  
You're shaking, god, you're shaking and the tears won't stop. What are you even supposed to think anymore? So what if you were...were _raped?_ Does that make you any less pathetic? Got drunk and raped by a girl? What a fucking laugh.  
  
Your breath hitches but you refuse to panic, fumbling with your phone to find the damned contact.  
  
JOHN: dad?  
DAD: Hello, John! It's nice to hear from you. How are you?  
JOHN: i'm, uh, not good dad. not really good at all.  
DAD: Oh, I see. Do you want to tell me what's wrong?  
JOHN: i wish i could, but it's really complicated. i'm just really confused, dad, and i feel like everything's happening all at once and it's freaking me out.  
DAD: Yes, life will do that to you. Is there any way I can help?  
JOHN: just...just talking is enough, i think. around here it just feels like everyone's against me one minute and for me the next and...it's just nice to talk to you.  
DAD: I'm sure your friends aren't against you, son. It may feel like that, sometimes, but I'm sure they all love you very much. And if I'm wrong, well, you know that I'm always on your side.  
JOHN: yeah, yeah, i know. thanks dad.  
DAD: Are you sure you don't want to tell me what's bothering you?  
JOHN: it's just...work is stressful and some stuff went down with dave so we're not really together anymore and it's like rose and jade aren't sure whether they want to side with me or dave and DAVE'S being confusing and it's just so frustrating.  
DAD: I see. I'm sorry to hear about you and David, do you want to tell me what happened?  
JOHN: it's a long story, dad, and i'm not really sure about all the details yet, myself.  
DAD: Ah...John, if I may propose something?  
JOHN: uh, sure?  
DAD: Would you like to come home and spend a few days with me? Perhaps give yourself and your friends some time to figure things out?  
JOHN: that sounds really great, dad, but i can't, not with my residency. i'm really sorry...  
DAD: No need to apologize; it was only an offer. Perhaps you could visit in the future, though; I do miss having you around.  
JOHN: yeah, i think i'd like that.  
DAD: I'm glad to hear it. Now, I'd love to continue chatting, but I must get back to work. Unless of course you urgently need me, in which case my work can be damned.  
JOHN: that's alright, dad, i'm good. thanks for talking to me.  
DAD: Of course. Never hesitate to contact me when you need me. I love you, John, and I'll talk to you later.  
JOHN: love you, too, dad  
  
You're feeling dramatically less panicked when you return the phone to the nightstand. It's been way too long since you talked to your dad; you'll have to remember to call him more often. Well, if you ever manage to get your voice back, that is.  
  
You breathe deeply to calm yourself further. You should text Rose and Dave. Apologize. Tell them you just need some time to get your head wrapped around all of this. Around the fact that you were- were-  
  
Fuck.  
  
Your fingers are trembling again, and you think that Jane has some tea in one of the cupboards. You could really use a cup right now.  
  
You climb back out of bed, feeling embarrassed and childish. What kind of a grown man gets upset and cries into his pillow and texts his dad to make himself feel better? The answer is, of course, that they don't, and you're just a pathetic excuse for a man.  
  
When you open the door to go back out to the kitchen, you're surprised to find Dave sitting against the wall outside it, his knees curled up to his chest and his arms crossed atop them. He tilts his face toward you then drops his chin down on his arms,  
  
“Hey,” He mumbles, and you give him a wave that's a little more than a twitch of your hand, “Uh. I can leave if you want me to. And I'd understand if you want me to. I just wanted to make sure you didn't need anything.”  
  
You stand and stare at him silently, your brow furrowed before you shake your head and step past him, gesturing for him to follow. You pick up your paper again, not missing the fact that a few pages had been torn away and all evidence of your little breakdown was gone. You write something down, tear off the page and hand it to him.  
  
 _Tea?_  
  
He looks up at you again, staring like he's trying to figure out if you've gone crazy. When you keep your face as straight as possible to convey your seriousness, he nods slowly.  
  
You find the tea in a high cupboard and pull out two bags and a pair of mugs, setting them on the counter beside the stove. Dave seats himself on the couch, and you can feel your eyes on him the entire time you're moving about the kitchen. He doesn't stop staring even after you've prepared the tea and you sit his in front of him before sitting at the opposite end of the couch with your cup cradled in your hands. It's warm and fragrant and you might not even have to drink it for it to calm you down.  
  
Dave doesn't touch his, just watches you sip at yours for a while. The silence is tense and uncomfortable until he breaks it.  
  
“Sorry man,” He says quietly, “We kind of dumped all that shit on you pretty quick, huh?”  
  
You set your mug down and grab for the paper.  
  
 _I't's alright. I think I needed to hear it._  
  
He laughs humorlessly, “Not arguin' that point. We probably coulda gone about it better, though.”  
  
You shrug and hopefully he gets that you really don't want to talk about that right now. You're trying to calm down not rile yourself up again. You jot something down and turn the paper to show him.  
  
 _Movie?_  
  
One of his eyebrows creeps up before a small smile quirks the corners of his lips, “Only if I get to pick.”  
  
–  
  
Jane and Roxy have mostly detective and fantasy movies, and Dave insists that sparkly magic has nothing on crime-solving, so you end up watching some black and white detective movie that you don't actually care about. Dave's sprawled beside you, careful to make sure that he's not touching you.  
  
His tea's gone cold and you think he probably just took it to be polite. He seems to be enjoying the movie, though, watching it intently and making fun the way that he only does to movies he likes.  
  
You, on the other hand, are far more interested in watching him. The part of his lips, the freckles dusting his cheeks beneath his shades, the way his mouth shapes around his words and curls upwards at the corners when he smiles. Your eyes trail lower, down the curve of his neck to the point where his skin disappears beneath his shirt. You trace every scar along his arms from fights with his brother, down to his fingers, rough and calloused from handling swords and mixing beats.  
  
Your fingers shake as you move them towards his hand. It's a slow process, and halfway through you want to pull your hand back and forget you tried, but you push onward until your palm is slotted above his and your fingers are curling around his hand.  
  
He stops mid-sentence, his entire body tenses.  
  
Shit, shit, you made a mistake, you fucked up again, fuck, fuck-  
  
Before you can jerk your hand back, though, his closes around it, not hard enough to really keep you there but enough that you know that this is okay, it's alright to do this. The touch doesn't make you feel ill, and after spending so long shying away from all contact, the warmth of his skin against yours is almost painful. You squeeze tighter, staring at your joined hands like you'd never seen anything like them before.  
  
Your mouth is moving before you can stop it, and your voice croaks out, soft and broken, surprising both of you.  
  
“I said- I said no.”  
  
There's a beat of silence before the damn breaks, before tears flood your eyes and sobs are wrenched from your throat and you feel like you're breaking apart from the inside out.  
  
Dave's there immediately, arms around you, pulling you to his chest, and it hurts, god it hurts, but you need it.  
  
You're falling apart, and he's doing his best to keep you together.


	7. Chapter 7

Recovery, you think, is even harder than denial.  
  
Everyone walks on eggshells around you, treating you like you're going to fall apart if they push too hard or say something wrong. It's frustrating, _infuriating_ at times and sometimes you have to lock yourself away in your room and pace and yell into a pillow because you can't stand being around people anymore. You know they're trying to help, you know you _need_ them to help, but you just can't take it sometimes. Everyone's accommodating, though, which is a plus. When you have to leave a get together early or retreat into your bedroom without warning, no one gives you flack for it.  
  
A few weeks after your breakdown and admission that, yes, you were...you were _raped,_ Rose suggests that you see a counselor. You ask why she can't be your counselor—you're comfortable with her, you're not sure about a stranger—but she says that it would be inappropriate for her to see you in a professional setting when she was so close to your situation. She sends you to a woman who sees primarily male clients whose situations are marginalized because of, and you quote, 'the patriarchal society's forced idea of masculinity'.  
  
You're hesitant, _really_ hesitant, because you don't really want to be in a room alone with a woman for an hour. The thought makes your throat close and your chest tighten and your hands tremble, and Rose insists that you don't _have_ to see her, that she knows plenty of male counselors who would be able to help. But your trust in Rose is stronger than your terror, and Dave assures you that he'll be there the entire time and Rose says that Dave can even go in with you if you want him to.  
  
And if there's one thing that makes all of this easier, it's Dave.  
  
You two aren't together, not by a long shot. You love him, you do, but there have been breaches in trust on both sides too many for you two to go right back to how you'd been before. He's still weighted under guilt and you're still broken, damaged, possibly beyond repair. But he's always there, a steady presence. He walks you home when you need to leave places early, he drops by the hospital to check on you while you're working, and he stays over at Jane and Roxy's place, sometimes crashing on their couch, other times, when you're feeling up to it, sleeping with you. He listens when you vent and doesn't mind when you wake him with nightmares.  
  
But you've seen the toll it's taking on him, and maybe seeing a counselor would take some of the weight off his shoulders.  
  
You agree.  
  
Aranea is nice enough, tall and thin with short dark hair and white framed glasses. She doesn't mind when you ask if you can sit near the door and she always keeps distance between you. She tells you that you don't have to talk about the incident, that you can talk about whatever you wish and they'll get down to That Night when you're comfortable. You're tight-lipped the first few appointments, keeping your hands folded tightly over your knees and shooting looks at the door to remind yourself that Dave is right there, right there, you're _safe._  
  
Aranea is patient with you, and she doesn't mind how closed-lipped you are. It's a few weeks before you manage to talk about the rape, before you can actually start working on recovering instead of dancing around the subject. Things get harder after that. The sessions are emotionally taxing, and you're stressed and snappy afterwards, biting out responses and locking yourself away. You refuse all contact for a while, taking time off of work and staying home except for your appointments with Aranea.  
  
Everyone gives you space, everyone understands, and that just frustrates you more.  
  
You have no right to be mad at them. Just because you're upset, just because you're stressed doesn't mean you get to take it out on people, but no one will call you on it. You want to push, you want them angry, you want them to yell at you and scream and tear you apart, but they never do. You tell this to Aranea, admit it while you're up and pacing with your hands knotted in your hair. She tells you it's natural to be frustrated, but she insists that you don't deserve to be punished for feelings, that your anger and bitterness were perfectly valid.  
  
It gets a little easier after that.  
  
And then Aranea suggests pressing charges.  
  
“Charges?” You ask, wringing your hands, “Like, legal charges?”  
  
Aranea nods, “It wouldn't be a simple trial, I can assure you of that right now. There's an _extreme_ social stigma about men being victims of sex crimes. You are under no pressure from me to report this, but I would be more than willing to attest to your damaged mental state after the assault. If you can afford a lawyer, I would strongly urge you to at least consider the idea; not only would it likely help bring some semblance of closure to this ordeal, it would help other male victims of sexual assault come forward.”  
  
You nod mutely so she knows you heard her, but your heart is pounding loudly in your ears. She wants you to press charges, to take Nat to court and face a whole slew of people who won't believe you, who'll mock you and tell you that you weren't _actually_ raped and you were just overreacting. Were you ready for that? Could you really face that kind of humiliation?  
  
“Alright,” Aranea smiles kindly, “That's all our time. I'm not going to force you into this, of course, but you've made quite a bit of progress and I truly believe it would be beneficial for you to do so. Have a good day, John.”  
  
She stands and waits for you to follow suit before offering you her hand. You take it and shake it, giving her a shaky smile before fleeing her office. Dave's waiting for you outside and he's on his feet the moment you're out of the office.  
  
“Hey, man,” He says, hands shoved in his pockets—and you know he does that because he has to make a conscious effort not to touch you casually. He notes your closed off posture, the hunch of your shoulders and the way your arms are crossed defensively across your middle. His brow furrows and he takes a small step toward you,  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Fine,” You say quietly.  
  
He sighs, pulling one hand from his pocket to drag it through his hair, “You want to grab lunch or something?”  
  
You nod, and the two of you leave the room together. You don't hear Dave ask about what restaurant you want to go to, too wrapped up in your internal debate. You do find yourself looping your arm through his, though, hugging it close and taking comfort in his presence. He looks down at you and smiles a little before leading you off to whatever restaurant he'd decided on.  
  
You don't say a word the entire walk, and you're almost surprised when he stops and gestures toward a little pizza parlor. You manage a smile and follow him inside and to one of the booths. You sit across from him with your hands folded on top of the table. He stares at you for a moment before sighing,  
  
“You wanna talk about it?”  
  
You wet your lips, “It's nothing, Dave. Just...something Aranea said. Sorry—I can think about it later.”  
  
Dave smiles, “Don't apologize, John. I don't mind. Just want to make sure you're alright.”  
  
The waiter swings by and Dave orders a large pizza for the two of you. When the waiter's gone, you slide your hand across the table and take Dave's. He's surprised by the action and stairs for a moment before he turns his on its back so he can curl his fingers around yours in return. You smile and he returns it, wide and genuine, and, god, you've missed this. You've missed _him._  
  
You eat in a comfortable silence, sharing silent looks and quiet smiles. You feel like a teenager again, like you're on your first date at a smoothie shop and neither of you know what to say but you've been friends for so long that it doesn't matter. Nat could've taken this from you, you realize. Her actions could've torn this away from you and from Dave, and that thought sits heavy in your stomach, and makes you want to close the distance between you and Dave now, to kiss him hard and long and remind yourself that she _didn't._  
  
But you're not ready for that yet. Hell, you can barely hold his hand without a few long minutes of silent contemplation.  
  
“John.”  
  
Dave's voice startles you out of your stupor and you look at him, raising your eyebrows to indicate that you had, in fact, heard him. He looks nervous, and rubs at the back of his neck with a greasy hand, which is pretty gross and indicates that he's considerably anxious.  
  
“I was wonderin',” he says after a moment of loaded silence, “Um. See. I was just wonderin' if maybe. You know. If you want to, uh, come stay at...at my-our, _our_ place. I mean, I'm not asking you to move in. I don't expect you to just- but yeah, if you want to come stay for, like, a couple of days. Just to, y'know, test the waters, right? And, um, I'm rambling, so.”  
  
He cuts himself off, sealing his lips tight and dragging his fingers through his hair again.  
  
Your hands shake when you reach across the table to catch his and pull it down to lace your fingers together, “I-”  
  
Your voice breaks and you swallow thickly before continuing, “I'd like that. That sounds...good.”  
  
His smile is relieved, and one of the knots twisting your lungs loosens at the thought that you put that smile there.  
  
“Sweet,” he says, “So you- tonight, maybe? We could swing by Roxy and Jane's and you can get some stuff. If you want to wait, that's fine, I just. I'm ready when you are. That's what I'm trying to say.”  
  
You nod, “Tonight's good.”  
  
You're sure that his smile's going to split his face in two.  
  
–  
  
It's strange being in your apartment again when it's...when it's really yours. You stand in the living room and inhale shakily because this is your apartment. This is _yours and Dave's apartment_ and Nat didn't change that.  
  
“I moved everything back,” Dave says, “After last time.”  
  
You nod, eyes sweeping the room, reminding yourself that this is still yours if you want it. You turn to Dave and take a small step toward Dave. His sunglasses are dangling from his shirt collar, so his eyes are bare, and he watches you carefully. You take another step and you see the tremble in his frame. And then you're hugging him.  
  
It's almost painful, this proximity, his chest warm against you, your cheek pressed to his neck so that you can feel the pulsing of his heart. You swallow and you're trembling, but you're not scared. Your chest feels warm and full but not tight. It hurts but not badly.  
  
Dave hesitates at first before he returns your embrace. His hands stay above your waist, one curling into the fabric at the bend in your spine, the other resting at the back of your neck. His arms are loose enough around you that it's almost like he's not holding you at all, but then you make a quiet sound, one not borne of terror, and his embrace tightens. His fingers slide up and tangle in your hair and he pulls you tight against him, clutching like you'll disappear.  
  
“John,” he says shakily, _“John.”_  
  
You don't say anything, just hold him tighter as the tears burn in your eyes. Your breaths are gasping and shrill and he shushes you, rubbing circles into your back and whispering comforts into your ear.  
  
Time loses meaning, so you aren't sure how long you stand there in the living room just clinging to him, and by the time you extricate yourself from his arms, you feel drained. Not enough to sleep, but enough that you just want to lay down. You tell Dave and he's more than happy to follow you to the bedroom.  
  
You nestle under the covers and he sits beside you, letting you curl over and tuck your head into the juncture between his hip and thigh, his fingers carding through your hair. You end up doing a lot of talking, casual conversations that you haven't seemed to carry for a long, long time. It's nice. So, of course you have to fuck it up.  
  
You're just so comfortable, here with Dave who still cares despite everything, Dave who's patient and gentle even when he has no need to be. You're here in a place you never thought you'd be able to call home again. You've got people to turn to, people who don't understand what you're going through but stick around anyway. You're very much not alone, and it's not till now that you realize something.  
  
You're lucky.  
  
You're ridiculously fucking lucky because if you had kept quiet, you could've lost everything, lived your life, maybe cut it short, _without knowing that it wasn't your fault._  
  
“I want to talk to Nat.”  
  
Dave's hand stills in your hair, and you feel his entire body go rigid. His fingers tremble as he looks down at you, eyes wide when they meet yours.  
  
“You... _what?”_ He asks, searching your face like he wants you to be joking, “Is-is this something that Aranea wants you to do, or-”  
  
You shake your head, “This is all me. I just...there are some things that I need to know. That I need to ask.”  
  
His hand leaves your hair and moves to brush away your bangs so he's looking you straight in the eyes, albeit upside down,  
  
“You're sure?”  
  
Your inhale deeply and sigh, “Not really. But I need to do this.”  
  
“Okay. Do you know how to get ahold of her? Because there's no way I'm letting you go to her house.”  
  
“I think Roxy knows,” You say, “I'll call her tomorrow. For now, let's just...”  
  
You shift, settling in closer, relishing the fact that you're so close to him and you don't feel like you're going to puke up your lunch. He hums in agreement and starts playing with your hair again. You close your eyes and allow yourself to feel content.  
  
–  
  
It turns out that Roxy does have Nat's phone number, and you manage to set up a meeting before opening at Roxy's bar on Saturday.  
  
You spend most of that Saturday morning panicking, pacing the living room and listening to Dave tell you that it's okay, you don't have to do this, you can still back out. But you can't. Not now. You've come so far already and you need to do this. You need to face this, to face _her._  
  
When it finally comes time to leave for the bar, Dave steps in front of you to effectively stop your pacing. He lifts one hand, lets it hover in the air between you, waiting patiently for your permission. When you nod, he reaches forward and brushes a curl of hair out of your face before sliding his hand down and cupping your cheek in his hand.  
  
“I'll be there the entire time,” He says, thumbing at the corner of your eye where you hadn't realized that there'd been a tear forming, “Roxy and Jane, too. This entire meeting is on your terms. If you want to leave, you leave. Okay?”  
  
You nod and his hand drops away from your face in favor of grabbing your hand and squeezing. You offer a shaky smile and tell him that, yeah, you're ready, and then the two of you leave your apartment—you're still getting used to this apartment being yours again even if you're not moving back in quite yet—and head to the bar. The closer you get, the harder it is to move your feet, the louder your heart pounds in your ears. You have to stop to catch your breath more than once because your breaths are little more than thin gasps and more than once, Dave asks if you want to go home and try this later.  
  
But you muscle through and make it to the bar. Seeing Nat, though, is like a punch to the gut. Her dark hair is pulled up into a ponytail, and she's dressed in ratty gray sweats and a tee-shirt emblazoned with her college's name and logo. She looks like she dressed hurriedly, nowhere near the well-kept-and-dressed woman you'd seen before. Still, you're taken back, not only to That Night but also to the last time you'd seen her, to the lobby of the Planned Parenthood where you'd sat while she'd aborted your child with your blessing.  
  
You still in the doorway and Dave's hand tightens around yours. After taking a moment to regain your senses, you step inside. Roxy and Jane watch you from their seats at the bar, and Nat's eyes lift from studying her nails.  
  
She heaves a sigh and crosses her arms, “What is this, John? I mean, first you knock me up, turn my friends against me and make me nearly incapable of coming to my favorite bar and, what, now you dragged me here to rub it in?”  
  
Rage bites at your lungs, but you ignore it, not bothering to grace her with a response before you take the seat across from her, Dave pulling a chair up to sit beside you. Her dark eyes leave your face to study Dave's instead.  
  
“This your boyfriend?” She asks, “Surprised you two are still together. Last I heard you were tragically separated.”  
  
“Not anymore,” You reply quietly, placing yours and Dave's intertwined hands on the table in plain view. You feel just a bit of the tension that had been growing in Dave's hand drain.  
  
“Okay. I don't actually care,” She rolls her eyes before leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms, “Now, care to explain why you're here? Is there anything else you can do to ruin my life?”  
  
A single, nigh hysterical laugh croaks from your throat, “ _I_ ruined _your_ life? Are you joking?”  
  
Nat's lip curls into a sneer, “Uh, yeah. Roxy's all but banned me from the bar and I've been an emotional wreck since I got the abortion. It's affecting my school work and you dragging me down here to show off your pretty boy boyfriend isn't going to help much.”  
  
You grind your teeth and squeeze Dave's hand harder, “I just have a couple of questions,” You say tersely.  
  
“Well then ask them. I've got homework.”  
  
“First of all, I need to know if you understand,” you say, voice shaking.  
  
“Understand _what?_ I don't have time for you to dance around the points.”  
  
You wet your lips, a little guilt niggling your gut because you're wasting everyone's time with your hesitancy. You stamp that guilt out, though. Remind yourself of what Aranea had said about ignoring misplaced guilt, reminding yourself that you have nothing to feel guilty _about._  
  
“I need you to understand that what you did that night wasn't- wasn't-”  
  
“Consensual,” Dave finishes for you and his voice is tight and barely reigning his fury, “Or legal or even remotely _okay.”_  
  
You release a shaky breath and Nat's eyebrows crawl up her forehead toward her hairline as he eyes flicker between you and Dave.  
  
“Oh,” She says, laughing a little, _“Oh._ So this is how you landed your boytoy back, huh? Trying to claim rape again? That's rich, Johnny.”  
  
“Don't call me that.”  
  
She rolls her eyes, “Okay, so you still think I raped you. What are you going to do? Press charges?”  
  
You hesitate just long enough that her smile vanishes,  
  
“Oh my god, you are. You want to take me to court because you think I raped you.”  
  
You inhale shakily and sit up a little higher, “You _did._ I-I said no _multiple times-”_  
  
“Yeah, well you sure enjoyed yourself.”  
  
“That doesn't _mean_ anything-”  
  
She stands, slamming her hands down on the table and you flinch, Dave reaching with his free hand to grab your forearm.  
  
“John, I am a law student and I can assure you that I did not rape you and there is no imaginable way that a jury would ever convict me,” She reaches down and grabs the purse sitting by her chair, “I don't have to sit here and listen to this. I have work to do. Goodbye.”  
  
She storms away, slamming the door to the bar behind her.  
  
You breathe out and feel like you haven't been breathing this entire time. When Dave gives you a little tug, you fall against him bonelessly, jaw quivering. Dave runs his fingers through your hair and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.  
  
“You did good,” he murmurs, “She's lucky I didn't jump across the table and punch her throat.”  
  
You laugh a little, “Probably best that you didn't.”  
  
“Why's that? Think she deserved it.”  
  
You sigh, “Not contesting that. But, see, that wouldn't look very good to a jury.”  
  
Dave shifts, twisting a little to look at you, “So you're pressing charges? For sure?”  
  
You breathe in deep and let your shoulders drop. You look at Dave and then over at Roxy and Jane who are starting to set up the bar. Roxy looks over her shoulder and smiles at you and you return it. You look back at Dave and nod,  
  
“Definitely. Aranea said that she thought it would help and...and I want to.”  
  
“Awesome. We're gonna need a lawyer.”  
  
–  
  
VRISKA: Jonathon!!!!!!!!  
JOHN: uh, vriska, you know that's not my name.  
VRISKA: Well, yeah, 8ut it has 8 letters, so I think I'm going to stick with it.  
JOHN: haha, alright, whatever you want. so what's up?  
VRISKA: Tavros and I are going to gra8 dinner at this fancy schmancy place his friend recommended. We were wondering if you wanted to tag along. You can even 8ring lover8oy. :::;)  
JOHN: ah, i'd love to, but dave and i are a little busy.  
VRISKA: With what?  
JOHN: we're looking for a lawyer. i'm pressing charges against nat. unfortunately, no one seems inclined to take on such a hopeless case.  
VRISKA: Oh!!!!!!!! I know just the person!!!!!!!!  
JOHN: you do?  
VRISKA: Duh! Do you think I'd still be walking free if I didn't have a gr8 attorney????????  
JOHN: that's true. what's her name?  
VRISKA: Terezi Pyrope. Look her up and tell her Vriska sent you.  
JOHN: alright, will do! thanks vriska.  
VRISKA: Anytime. Now, I gotta go. Tavros is getting impatient.  
JOHN: bye!  
VRISKA: L8r. ::::)  
  
–  
  
You'd say Terezi wasn't what you were expecting, but seeing as she was recommended to you by Vriska, that would probably be a lie. She agrees to have the consultation in your apartment, and the morning of, you wake to find Jade and Rose in your kitchen. Dave sheepishly informs you that he told them and that they refused to not be present. Rose assures you that they won't be a bother and they'll stay in the kitchen the whole time.  
  
When Terezi arrives you're thrown for a bit of a loop. She's a few inches taller than you with messy black hair and a pair of pointed red glasses that couldn't possibly be prescription. She's dressed rather informally in a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and she's got a white cane with a dragon's head on top of it and a red stripe around its middle. So she's blind.  
  
She grins wide and toothy, wolfish like Vriska, “John? May I come in?”  
  
“Uh,” You stumble a little to get out of her way, pulling the door open wider so that she can tap her way inside, “Yeah, of course. You're Ms. Pyrope?”  
  
“Call me Terezi,” Her cane hits the couch as she's wandering and she turns and falls on top of it unceremoniously, looking back in your direction, “I hear we have a lot to talk about.”  
  
“Yeah,” You look at Dave helplessly and he shrugs, “My case is...it's a bit...abnormal, I guess? Most of the other lawyers I've asked turned me down because they thought the case was impossible, but-”  
  
She raises a hand and your mouth snaps shut, “I am _not_ other lawyers. Most lawyers also said that keeping Vriska out of jail would be impossible, but, as you can see, I made that happen. Now, Vriska and I don't always it along but she _very rarely_ asks me for favors, so get over here and tell me what you need me for.”  
  
You toss another look at Dave, and he nods at you encouragingly. You sigh heavily, walk over to the couch to sit beside her, and start your explanation.  
  
She's quite expressive, and you watch the way her face shifts as you speak. The furrow in her brow only grows deeper and by the time you're finished, she's scowling with one finger curled thoughtfully beneath her chin.  
  
“It won't be easy,” She says immediately, “Probably even harder than Vriska's cases. And there's nothing I can do about the money you paid for the abortion. I can't guarantee you a win.”  
  
Hope rising in your chest, you ask, “But you'll do it?”  
  
Her grin is back in a flash, “Hell yes, I'll do it. I'll even do it free of charge. Impossible cases are what I _live_ for. I'm going to have to buy Vriska lunch for sending you to me. This case is going to be _huge.”_  
  
She stands and offers you a hand, and you take it and let her shake it firmly.  
  
“Thank you,” You say, feeling a little breathless, “Fuck, thank you so much.”  
  
“No problem, John. Now, I'll go work some things out and call you later with some real details. We'll work it out from there.”  
  
She waves enthusiastically as she leaves, and you find that you can't stop smiling. When she's gone, Dave finally comes over to sit beside you and you hug him around the waist, grinning into his shoulder like a loon. You hear Jade and Rose walk in from the kitchen, and Rose sits down on your other side while Jade plops down at your feet.  
  
“If she had refused, we were going to beat her up,” Jade informs you helpfully, and you grin down at her. You wish you were comfortable enough to ruffle her hair or give Rose a hug, but you know they understand. They understand and they're here.  
  
The next few months aren't going to be easy. A court case is likely to bring a lot of attention and a lot of pain—painful memories laid bare to the public eye, ridicule from people like Nat who don't believe that what you'd gone through was _actually_ rape. But you have support, more support than you could ever ask for, and even if you don't win, that anyone is willing to stand up and fight for you like Terezi is, is a step in the right direction.  
  
You're still a little cracked, but you're not broken. Not yet.  
  
And every day you're healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp! that's the end. i might do a ficlet or two in this 'verse but this is the ending of the main story because i'm not particularly comfortable with attempting to write and detail the court case, itself, seeing as i have very little knowledge in the field and i don't think that i'd be able to do it justice. i hope you enjoy it regardless!
> 
> thanks for sticking around, guys! :*


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